


The Roots Run Deep

by otakuashels, Shuriken7



Series: A Collision of Worlds [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Complete, Drama & Romance, Historical, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 64,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2422280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otakuashels/pseuds/otakuashels, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shuriken7/pseuds/Shuriken7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've been with you since the beginning, ever since you first became a country of sorts, ever since Roanoke" "I remember you all the way from the beginning. You were always there" "I will always be there. Even if you hurt me America" "I expect you to keep that promise England"</p><p>A sweeping fanfiction of America and England's relationship from the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To the New World

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for joining us! This story is the product of a history major and Americanist getting together to write a fanfic. It's incredibly nerdy, but we hope you enjoy it!

 

**~*~ Chapter 1 ~*~**

_The Court of Queen Elizabeth, 1584_

The room was too large to truly suffocate anyone, but to England it may as well have been a box. The mutterings and discussions of courtiers was tiring. He did his best to stand beside the throne and not embarrass his Queen. So there he stood, stock still, looking like any other nobleman and listening to the Spanish ambassador droll on and on.  The man would look to him every so often, no doubt recognizing precisely who he was. Spain certainly wasn’t forgetting any time soon since the last time they met on the ocean. England had been pleased to present that gold to his Queen. The look on Spain’s face had been worth more than that.

It took all of his discipline to stand still. However, he could not help looking about the throne room. Despite the array of candles lit about the room, sunlight poured in through tall windows of glass. The draperies of rose red matched the carpet that scrolled from the door to his Queen's throne. He was thankful for the chill offered from the large gray stones that the castle was crafted from. The room was hot and a concern burned in his breast for Elizabeth. It must be even worse for her as she was in layer upon layer of clothing that his monotheistic people deemed appropriate. He risked a glance down at Elizabeth and she glanced back at him with a small smile on her face. His lips twitched in a suppressed grin, she was as bored by the Spanish complaints about English pirates as he. She held up a pale hand to the men to silence them. She was about to open her mouth when a ruckus occurred at one end of the room, gaining her attention and England’s.

Striding brazenly down the middle of the room was a man with an entourage behind him and carrying chests. Two men, the likes of which England had never seen before, followed in the train looking terrified at all of the colorful fashions of court. The Spanish ambassador glared daggers at the man.

“You are not welcome here, pirate!” The man declared and moved to prevent the new arrival from coming any closer.

“Let him through.” commanded Elizabeth.

“Your Majesty, this man is…”

“He can tell me himself what he is.” she said, with a look that could wither greater men. England moved from his position behind the throne to stand beside it. Though there was no obvious threat to his Queen it put his mind at ease to place his body closer to hers. This arrival was a welcome diversion from the monotony of court life.

“I am an explorer, my Queen. I have come from a new world.” he said, bowing low.

“What is your name?”

“Walter Raleigh.” he replied. England had heard the name before while sifting through writs that the crown provided when funding explorations. Spain may have gotten to the New World first, but he was not going to get to lay claim to all of its wonders and riches.

He paraded some of the things he had brought with him from the New World, describing that he had proclaimed the land Virginia, in honor of the Queen. She joked that he would have to change the name when he took a husband. The court laughed. The Spanish ambassador was incensed that the man was getting such a reception.

“This man is a pirate!” he declared again, moving forward and standing beside Raleigh.

Raleigh looked at the other man, “I would consider the gold a gift from the Spanish ship, considering that I was so generous not to just sink her.” England ducked behind the throne and smothered a laugh. He liked this man. Elizabeth did not even bother to hide her mirth.

“You interest me, Mr. Raleigh.” she said. She held out her hand in England’s direction and he took it, kneeling by her side. She leaned in close, “Go and speak to him. Find out about this New World.” England nodded and walked down the steps to meet with him. He gestured that they should move away from the Spanish delegation, England certainly did not want Spain to know that there would soon be more competition than he could handle for the virgin lands on the other side of the ocean. He could feel Spain’s eyes burning into his back and he couldn’t help the smirk that lifted his lips in amusement. Daft Spaniard don’t you know that I will always get my way! he thought.

“Her Majesty wishes you to tell me about the New World.” he said, when they were out of earshot of other members of the court. Raleigh looked him up and down, clearly seeing nothing more than a young man that was barely older than a boy. England looked back at him, certain that his centuries would show in his eyes even if they did not in his body.

“Who are you?” Raleigh asked.

England smiled, “I am your nation. And I want to know about this New World.”

~*~

Raleigh was filled with stories that got England’s blood singing, what a grand place this new land must be! What kind of nations may dwell there? England listened to the stories until well after the torches had been lit and the stars took their place in the sky.

The corridors were dark, yet comfortable, as he made his way towards the Queen’s chambers to tell her what he had learned. To encourage her, as Raleigh wanted, to send him back across the sea. And this time, England was determined to be on board the ship.

Coming around a corner quickly he slammed straight into someone.

“I apo---”

“An apology, how delightful, oui?”

“Good God, when did you get here?!” England exclaimed, moving as far back from France as possible. The other nation grinned. He leaned against the wall, clad in the best of the recent fashions, his breeches and waist coat trimmed to accentuate his body. England adjusted his own waistcoat, realizing that he’d wrinkled his clothing throughout the evening of conversation.

“And here your Queen claims to be the Defender of the Faith and her own nation blasphemes.”  France tutted.

“You’re hardly one to talk!” England bit back the profanity that was swelling in his throat.

“Perhaps I did not come here to talk.” France teased, reaching for him.

“Be serious!” England said, swatting the hand away.

France chuckled and continued to smile even when England glared at him. He sighed and said, “In that case, Angleterre, I arrived here not long ago. My King has some things to discuss with your Queen and he only trusted me to carry the letter.” He pulled a sealed paper from his tunic, the wax seal of the King of France overlarge on it. He walked past England and waved the piece of parchment close to him.  England was unable to hide the annoyance that was surely painted across his features. As always the French country was dressed in obnoxious bright colors, annoying blue eyes surrounded by overly attended long locks of blond hair. France was pompous, flamboyant and frankly an outright git.

England held out a hand for it, "Well, in that case you may as well deliver it to me."

France tucked the paper back away, "I'm afraid not. However, if you want to spend time with me, dear friend, you know where my chambers are." France smirked at him and walked away.

"We are not friends! And in your dreams!" he shouted after him, his voice overloud in the empty hallway. France chuckled as he disappeared around a corner, blowing England a kiss that was far lewder than it should have been.

England walked away from France, shaking. He was not sure if it was from distress or anger. How dare that bastard act so high and mighty! He stomped down the hall heading for his quarters. He needed a moment to himself to regain control and not feel so affected. The news from White and the encounter with France made him feel like he needed a drink. He passed an open corridor and felt foreboding settle into his gut. He stopped and turned.

Damn it.

"Little Brother, who is up your ass today?" Scotland dropped a hand on England's head and ruffled his hair. Too hard.

"You it seems." England said, moving out from under the rough hand. Scotland's sardonic grin transformed into a frown.

"And whose fault is that, eh?"

"Your bloody Queen's." England said, walking away from his brother. Not wanting to get into Scotland's latest drama. Apparently, some supernatural had a grudge today. The only thing that could be worse was Wales showing up to inform him that he'd accidentally let Ireland land on his coast for an invasion. He could hear Scotland following after him. England's problems ran through his mind like a tapestry of the tale. His colony was going poorly, France was sniffing around for weakness, word about Spain getting uppity... He whirled on Scotland. He could solve one problem right now.

He thrust a finger into Scotland's chest. Scotland raised his eyebrows as though he were humoring a child. England would show him he was not a child anymore. "You need to stop being so cozy with my enemies. I forbid you from associating with France!"

Scotland snorted, "You forbid me."

"Your queen and mine are cousins."

"So is France's king."

"I don't give a damn about that. I forbid it!"

Scotland stepped closer to him. At this distance the difference in their heights was made more apparent. England glared up into Scotland's face. Scotland's face cracked into a grin, he flicked England on the forehead. "You forget something, baby brother. You don't rule me." Scotland said, his voice low, threatening. He stepped around England.

"Maybe not yet." England said, his own voice low.

Scotland stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should tell your queen to stop her scheming before she loses her head."

"Elizabeth would not dare."

"Mary risks both our safety with her schemes."

Scotland turned away, "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Somehow I don't believe that." Scotland did not move. The accusation was met with stony silence. England knew he had him. Scotland straightened and took a deep breath.

"Be careful about getting too big for your britches, England." he said, before walking on.

"What is that supposed to mean!?"

Scotland did not answer, just continued on his way. England swallowed the anger that was threatening to burrow up into his chest. As much as a fight with Scotland would make him feel better, the other apparently was not up for it. He would have Scotland bow to him one day. He'd decided it long ago. The Scots Queen better watch herself. He headed towards his own queen’s rooms trying to banish the unpleasant thoughts about his brother.

His announcement came and he was admitted to the inner chamber. Queen Elizabeth sat with all of her ladies around her. "Were you yelling at a certain French nation, England?" she teased. England felt a blush rise to his cheeks, but tried to push it down.  A sense of being a young child that was being scolded filled his mind, then disappearing when he saw the faint smile of amusement gracing her features. Mirth made Her Majesty’s eyes bright.

"I was not aware that he was here."

"Nevermind that," she said, a delicate wave of her small hand, "Tell me what Mr. Raleigh has told you about the New World." She gestured to a chair beside her and he sat, settling into the soft cushion before launching into some of the stories he had heard. They spoke all night and only came to their senses as the sun rose up outside the window.

~*~

England yawned into his breakfast, trying to hide it from the other nation he'd been so unfortunate to have to dine with. The French were here with some kind of discussion that neither France nor his ambassadors would tell him anything about. England considered his escape, but it was thwarted when France leaned closer to him on the bench and said, "Will you accompany me fishing? The weather is so fine today."

"Over my my dead..." England began.

"England." Elizabeth interrupted, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, my lady?"

She leaned close to him and whispered, "Play nice."

England frowned and wondered if she was serious. She leaned away with a laugh and turned to one of the other courtiers. England sighed, she was serious. "France, it appears that I will be able to accompany you fishing." he said in a begrudging tone.

France looked over the top of England's head to smile at Queen Elizabeth, "Thank you, your Majesty. I will greatly enjoy his company."

England wondered if it was possible for a nation to die of humiliation.

~*~

After settling as far a distance as he could, he dropped his line into the water and tried to ignore France's inane babbling about nonsense.  Choosing instead to focus on the land around him,  England felt a sense of pride and love stretch all the way to the ends of his limbs. The  river water glittered like fairy dust in the morning light. The glitter continued on at a much more subtle rate as his eyes traveled along grass that thickened as it grew further and further from the bank, morning dew beginning to burn away. The soft chirp of birds and the disgruntled conversations of ducks were like music to his ears in comparison to the croaks of his current companion.The sun beat down warmly on his face letting the drowsiness he felt in his bones come to the surface. His eyelids were getting heavier and heavier...

"Angleterre! You've got something on the line!"

"What?" he said sleepily, waking when the rod began to yank out of his hands. He gripped it harder, but he began to tip forward. With a splash he collapsed into the water and came up sputtering. France doubled over in laughter at the sight of him. England trudged through the shallow water to him trying to ignore the uncomfortable clinging of his clothing . England glared at him from the bottom of the bank shoving his now sopping blond fringe from his eyes. "Give me a hand up will you?"

France offered his hand and England used the opportunity to drag him off the bank and into the water. It was England's turn to laugh.

"How dare you!" France shouted enraged, splashing childishly as he fought to right himself in his newly water-logged state

"Now you look proper, Frog." England laughed, France looked positively murderous.

"What are you two doing?"

England turned away from France to look at the man who'd joined them standing on the bank. He looked out of place in his colorful clothing that was of a different style than France’s or England’s.

"Finland! We were... uh... fishing." said England, fully realizing his state.

"Doesn't look like it."

"Yes, see a fish!" said France, also not wanting to look the fool. Luck would have it, they hadn't scared off all of the fish in the river with their antics and he was able to snatch up a wriggling silver fish. Finland looked at them incredulously for a moment and dropped down on the bank.

England examined him for a moment, "What happened to your head?"

Finland reached up into his hair with a frustrated sigh, a large lump was on the side of his skull. He pulled his knees up to his chest and frowned at his feet. "It was terrible! Sweden and I were working on a settlement in the New World and Netherlands came and beat us out of it!"

"Oh?"

"It was such a nice place too, only there was something strange about it."

"What was strange about it?"

"Well, I suppose it wasn’t strange per say. It’s just there was this little boy out in the forest. He didn't seem to be from the settlement..."

"Wait! You mean there was someone like us?" France exclaimed, dropping the fish with a splash.

Finland though for a moment, "Maybe. But that would mean..."

"A little brother..." They all said at once. England only had to take one look at France to know what he was thinking. This new country would be his brother if he had anything to say about it. England had to get there first.

"I need to get back to the court to change. Her Majesty will be expecting me." He climbed out of the water and started towards his horse before France had even gathered his wits.

"England, you...!"

"See you, France! Finland!" Swinging onto his favorite chesnut mare he rode as quickly as he could, finding the location of his Queen immediately once he arrived back at the palace. Without even a thought to his state he ran to her. She was alone in her study pouring over maps and documents.

"England, why do you look...?"

"France dunked me in the river. But nevermind that, Bess! I need permission to go with Raleigh to start a colony across the sea."


	2. Roanoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England travels to the New World to establish a colony, however, there is trouble waiting for him at home when he returns.

~*~ Chapter Two ~*~

To compare the salty air of the ocean to the air of London was like comparing a common sow to a pure bred steed. The ocean air always came out on top. England inhaled deeply running his heavily gloved hand across the gunwale with almost a lover's affection.  Sliding his fingers over the nicks and grooves of the wood, a certain calmness filled his center. Though the nation was happy to stand in his Queen's court, when he was by her side that meant he could protect her with his own strength.  But to say that it was his favorite place would be an absolute lie, the best place to be was at sea. To ride up in a female queen of wood on top of ocean waves whose temperament was a secret to all but the men of of the sea.

"Ah, Mr. Kirkland good morning." a voice quickly brought England back to reality as he looked at the man that approached.

"Ah, Richard good morning, I hope that a good night's sleep was graced to you"  Richard nodded leaning back against a stack of roped crates.

"As much as a man can sleep upon such a rocky vessel." he responded and England looked over the human thoughtfully.  He had so wanted to travel to the new world with Raleigh yet the man would not travel back and he had graced the important task to the captain, Richard Greenville. England had not been so sure, but Raleigh placed much faith in the man and over the last couple weeks he had grown to like the individual very much.

"Reminds me of a mother rocking the cradle of her young." England shrugged only to have his comment ended with the cursing of a sailor. Looking up the men stared at one of the crew men fighting hard against a knot. "Ah, poor lad" he crossed his arms looking up.

"We should get someone to help him." Grenville said looking around only to have a low whistle from the Englishmen that stood adjacent. A cry of surprise drew his attention upwards once more as suddenly the knot came undone. The blond Brit chuckled in amusement, curses of surprise replacing those of anger.

"Mr. Kirkland, with the magic again?" Grenville muttered, rubbing at his arms. The man in question merely quirked his head in amusement turning his mouth upwards.

"Ah, yes, magic makes you uncomfortable. I forgot. " he commented.

"Well, it is rather frowned upon by the church."

"But, Richard, you must remember, not only am I Catholic, but Protestant and a faithful follower of the Mother." He smiled, straightening as the beckoning hand of the captain caught his attention.

"Mr. Kirkland I didn't mean it with any disrespect."

"It's Arthur, Richard.”

"Uh..."

"My name is Arthur," the nation said firmly patting his shoulder briskly, "The only time I go by the name of Kirkland is when captain is in front of it." He headed for the helm, his sea legs allowing him easy passage across the damp deck. Jogging up the stairs he took the gold painted spy glass that was offered to him.

"Thought that you would be interested in this." the scrubby bearded captain grunted pointing forward. At the gesture England turned front and extended the navigation device to its fullest extent, bringing it to his eye.  And there it was just on the horizon, a blurry black line, a line that signified land. His growing excitement was pierced by a yell from the crows nest.

"LAND HO!!!"  A sailor shouted from the top of his lungs.

"Yes, land ho." the pale blond breathed handing the Spyglass back to the captain. His legs carried him down the stairs and to the climbing rope against the belly of the mast. He pulled the gloves from his hands, shoving them in the waistband of his brown trousers and hosting himself along the makeshift ladder. Lean muscles crafted by decades of physical activity made the climb an easy one as he scaled the distance with impressive speed.

"Excuse me, lad." he nodded at the young man that stared at  him in shock as he hoisted himself into the crows nest. "Yes there it is" he smiled clutching the edge. From up here the blurry line was much more defined. He rubbed at the tears that came from emerald eyes as the sea wind stung them.

"The New World,” he breathed, “I'm almost there....the New World....and a little brother.”

~*~

“Mr. Kirkland, if you would please come down here.” came a shout from below. The country leaned over the edge to stare down at the explorer.

“Richard...I thought we had this discussion.” he sighed, propping his chin on his palm. the explorer flushed with what could only be a mix of annoyance and embarrassment.

“...Arthur, please come down. I need to discuss things with you before we land tomorrow.” he beckoned.

“Oh alright,” he nodded hiking over the edge, and muttered “Spoilsport.” A stray rope caught his attention. He pulled on his gloves and he grasped the rope bringing it closer to his body.

“Ah! Mr. K-Arthur don’t do that!”

“Richard, as an explorer your sense of adventure is extremely lacking!” With that the blond jumped, hands sliding down the rope at an alarming rate.

“Arthur! B-...uh.” The Englishman stared blankly at the country figure that dropped down onto the deck in front of him. His cheeks were red with excitement, emerald eyes glowing with exhilaration, messy hair mussed even more, if that was possible.

“Now Richard,”  he said, breathing heavily with hands perched upon narrow hips, “Let's hustle on to the map room and let's get to discussing this New World.”

Richard Grenville nodded and beckoned him toward the building. England put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Richard looked at him curiously waiting for whatever had come over the other man.

A serious expression came over the English nation’s face “No. Correction. Let's discuss My World.”

~*~

That night, even though the waves rocked the boat gently, the island nation was finding it impossible to fall asleep. He was anxious, anxious to see the new world, determined to beat that Frog at colonization He was also nervous, nervous about finding that small child that Finland had seen. He fervently hoped that Netherlands had not already snatched him up.  

He didn't have a little brother and according to France it was his own fault. Being too stiff upper lipped, harsh and demanding.  Never once had the words of the flamboyant Frenchman bothered him, until now. What if the boy had no interest in him? Worse, what if he didn't like him?

"Dammit to all hell." he muttered, rolling onto his side and pressed his cheek into the cloth of his blanket. He brought his knees up to his chest he willed himself to sleep. He needed all the energy he could get just in case that Frog was also there. He welcomed the small weight that suddenly settled on his hip. "Good evening, Flying Mint Bunny." he murmured, eyes cracking open to glance at the small fairy creature.

"England you are troubled, what is bothering your heart?" chirped the response.  

"Well, I do have to shave in the morning" he said sarcastically rubbing at the stubble that was beginning to form on his aristocratic bone structure.  

"England..."

"All right, all right." he sighed and began to spill his concerns out to the small winged rabbit. Eventually, the sand man visited the restless nation granting him the gift of much needed sleep. Sleep left him as a knock resounded through the small cabin.

"Arthur you need to come out here." Richard’s voice sounded impatiently. "Arthur!"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist." the pirate shot back stretching out with a groan of satisfaction as small pops sounded. He stiffened as it was the sound of seagulls that greeted him. Seagulls of this volume could only mean one thing.

Land.

Shoving the poor excuse for a blanket off if his body he bounded across the room yanking the door open to face a surprised Grenville. The explorer backed up quickly as the nation bolted from the door rocketing across the deck to the bow slamming against the gunwale almost falling head over heals. There it was, the shore of the New World, and it was perfect, it was his. Beaches of golden sand, decorated with what could only be shells as the seagulls screamed above him.  

"Arthur-"

"Richard!!!" The country whipped around, "How long until we reach bank!? How long, sir!? Tell me!" He gripped the man's shoulders tightly shaking him, "Out with it!"

"Within the hour is what the captain has informed the crew and I."

"Ugh, a bloody hour! That is just too long!" He groaned throwing his hands up in the air. At this, small groups of people came forth from below the deck. These were individuals who were going to start the first colony of the New World. His attention shifted forward enraptured by the scene before him. Only when a man from the helm appearing to be in his fifties stood alongside him did he pull his eyes away. England stood stiffly, jaw clenched and eyes wide in apprehension as they fixed on the nearing shore. A wave of sympathy  flowed over the nation was he leaned on his forearms. "It's a beauty isn't it?" England asked.

"I suppose, sir"

"Ah, is that a streak of distaste I detect?"

"Aye, sir."

"And why is that?"

"It's a foreign land, sir, a land that I am not familiar with," the man swallowed, "And to be frank, I am frightened. The fact that we have to start civilization here...that is a lot to be expected of us."

"Embrace it. It is a birth of a new world. Isn't the birth of a new calf, a lamb, or a child extremely exciting? The chance to aid in the growth and nurture of another being. Look at it that way" he looked over at the man with sudden interest. He was dressed different from the rest of the men standing around them. "What is your name?"

The look of worry left his eyes and amusement took over, "Lane...Ralph Lane," he smirked, "and you Mr. Kirkland, have been given the honor to touch new soil before anyone else." He gestured as the boat suddenly lurched.

"Sand bar!" A voice shouted, "Prepare to lower the first long boat."

In disbelief he looked over quickly at the mass of crew gathered along the gunwale looking at him expectantly. With many emotions England turned and headed for the two crew members that hoisted the boat into position.  In no time at all the men and the country lowered the boat to the water.

"We shall return in due time." England called, looking into the faces of Grenville and Lane, two men he was sure would play large parts in his history and future. The time between the boat and the sand was a blur, time stood still for England. The waters were clear. "Almost perfect."

The country hurriedly untied his tall black  boots yanking them off in haste along with wool stockings, ignoring the questioning looks from the two humans with him inside the miniature vessel. With a yank upwards of the trousers, pale slim legs were revealed to the burning sun, offering the flaming beast fresh flesh to burn.

"Almost there." he muttered impatiently gripping the edges so hard knuckles turned white. There! The first nudge of sand against wood. "Yes!"

Hosting his body over the side of the boat, chilled water splashing into the air, England, finally stepped into the ground of the new world.

~*~

England watched as the men began to put up small temporary shelters, building fires and pulling what food was left off the ship. He observed with jealousy the few men that had put together a party and ventured into the woods to look for fresh water, food, and anything else to fuel the fire. The minute he had jumped in the water and hit New World soil, he collapsed, unconscious as a surge of his peoples feelings and his met him all at once. It was exhilarating, yet terrifying. He had woken up to Grenville slapping at his face in a panicked state yelling for him to wake up. He winced as he watched Richard pouring over a set of maps with Ralph, a large bruise forming on his face. The nations first reaction had been to strike back at whatever was hitting him, he prayed that it didn't smart too much. Shifting restlessly he leaned back against the rough bark of a tree drawing circles in the dirt with his toe. Richard and Ralph had not been too pleased at the loss of consciousness.

They had instructed that he needed to keep within the camp area just in case something similar happened. But honestly!  He was the country of England, a force to be feared! One little mishap should not result him to be confined to camp like a child to his detention desk. Looking around, he noted the attention that had been focused on him was no longer applied he edged around the tree slowly. He had no interest in helping the men in their endeavors, this was his new country dammit! And he wanted to explore it as he pleased! With that the blond nation slid behind the tree allowing the small woodland area to envelope him, calm settling over his person. Choosing a random path created by some creature he took it at a slow pace, taking in the sight around him.

The cry of seagulls and ocean against the shore was muffled here amongst the trees sparse with green leaves as the sub burned what was left of the morning dew away from the earth. The slight rustle of undergrowth and branches signified that there was life in these woods, yet they appeared shy as all the sounds faded away from him in panicked scurries.

"This land has much potential,  I can see a thriving culture,  happy people..." he smiled softly.

"Aha how stereotypical" he chuckled coming across a muttering brooke. Dropping to his knees he cupped a puddle of the clear water bringing it to his lips. "Ah perfect, this water is fresh and drinkable.  I can see all the way to the bottom. Richard will be pleased with this find."

Splashing some of it into his face he settled down for a moments rest. Lounging back on propped elbows he let the rising sun pour down on him. "This place is comfortable,  I like it here. I have the feeling that my time here will be long and prosperous." he smiled, a yawn following the comment eyelids drooping

It was the chill of evening setting in that startled the man awake. "Oh hell! I did not plan to sleep away the day."  

Lurching to his feet and brushing dirt from his form  realization fell upon him. In the shadow of twilight nothing looked familiar.  He had gotten himself lost, literally, not only did he not know where he was and neither did anybody else.

"Ah bloody hell!" Anger at himself for making such a mistake fueled the country. "I'm pretty positive I came from this direction." he muttered and trumped into the woods. However to no avail the sun kept sinking in the sky his sister the moon climbing the sky ladder ladder for her shift. "Bloody hell it's getting dark!"

It was becoming difficult to see his hand in front of his face "Dammit" he muttered raking his hands through his hair and dropping them to his sides.  "I do not fancy camping out here"  with that thought process he trudged forward darkness falling like a blanket over the island. "I have been walking for at least an hour.Maybe I should stop and sleep for the night."

"No, Mister you can't! The wolves are going to eat you!" A young voice broke his solitary state.

"Agh!" England backed into a tree hand flying to the pistol at his hip "Who's there!? State your name I command thee-"

"Mister, let's go!" A small hand grabbed his own "I don't want you to be eaten!"

"Wait a bloody second!" The voice was high pitched signifying that the individual was a child much before adolescence. Not allowing for England to stick a gender on the child with 100% accuracy, yet he would bet anything it was a boy.  "Where are your paren- ah!!" England was yanked forward with surprising force and strength.

"Come on Mister! I can take you back to your friends!"

"My friends...but-" he cut himself short as the child broke into a small run tugging him along refusing to let go of his hand. He had no clue where he was and this child seemed to know where he was going. England had no clue where he was going, but the child proceeded forward with un-interrupted by bumps and roots. It was not long until the smell of smoke from a fire filled his senses and suddenly a flame could be seen through the trees.

“Arthur!”

“Mr. Kirkland!” Shouts broke through the air, it was then that the small hand disappeared from his own.

“Wait child, where are you-” the small dark figure disappeared into the undergrowth.

“Arthur is that you?! Arthur it is! Everybody I found him!”

“Ah Richard…Ralph” he turned to look at the man that bolted towards him, oh and did they look pissed.

~*~

England watched, unhappy with the situation. The crew that was returning to the motherland loaded what cargo they needed for the travel back. The situation at hand was not favorable for anybody. Ralph and 107 men were to be left on the island and Grenville was going to send a relief fleet. It was August 17, 1585 and the fresh supplies and new men were not going to be back until April of the next year. Kicking at the sand England could not help toss a glare at Richard as he called for him, waving from the boat.

“Arthur it is time that we set sail and return to our Queen! Let us bring our news of success to her with open arms!”

“Arthur, we shall be fine, its not like we are simple aristocrats” Ralph approached him from behind, resting his hand comfortingly on his shoulder “We are men who are used to living off of the land and taking care of themselves. We shall fare quite well until you return.” He assured his country with a firm grip.

“I still do not agree with the situation.” Arthur muttered turning to look at the man, a scowl etched upon young looking features. The country was quite aware of the hardiness and stubbornness of the men that were staying behind at Roanoke. Nobody knew that better than he. They were his people after all.

That was also the reason for his concern. Even though he understood that it was impossible for him to shelter everyone from the dangers of the world he would damn well try to do what he could.

“We will be fine, do not trouble yourself with us. You have work to do back in London. Go and make sure the Queen does not forget her subjects here.” Ralph laughed thrusting his hand forward.

“Aye. You say that you will be fine and I hold you to be a man of your word, Ralph.” he gripped his hand shaking it with heart. “I also would like you to do a favor for me.”

“Of course, what is it?”

“That first night here when I lost my way through the woods. I told you of that child that lead me back.” He spoke up and frowned at the skepticism that lit the humans face “I know you think me daft and unnerved in that situation, but humor me. Please keep an eye out for the child for me.”

“Aye, I will Arthur” he nodded releasing the nation’s hand as another impatient shout sounded from Grenville.

“All right! All right! Grenville what did I say about getting your knickers in a twist!” he shouted and with a short tip of the cap upon his head, running for the longboat. He stared at the shore with a longing and uneasiness settling in his heart as he was lifted into the ship. Leaning against the gunwale he grumbled to himself until a small figure perched upon a rock caught his attention. A small child dressed in a beige nightgown, with blonde hair like amber waves of grain. He sat upon the rock waving wildly at the ship as it sailed away.

“The boy!” he gripped the wood tightly “I knew it! The boy was real! I was not daft in the least sense!”

He slumped backwards turmoil brewing in his breast. “But who is he?”

 


	3. Losing the New World?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England suffers from anxiety over troubles with the colony of Roanoke.

~*~ Chapter Three ~*~

_1587 - 2 years later_

England heaved another heavy sigh as his quill scribbled across the parchment signing off that the document was acceptable for parliament and the Queen to waste their time on. Leaning back against the stiff wooden chair he groaned, stretching towards the high vaulted ceiling. He was waiting for anything to come and break the monotony of the afternoon. Orbs of emerald fixated on the yard that lay just outside the room.

Several aristocrats mingled aimlessly groups of women and men separated into their respective sex fawning over each other. Pairs of courting individuals mingling amongst them. He looked on with slight envy of the people that had those who had an important person. Of course, Elizabeth, and all of the people of his country were very important. He was starting to grow close to Lane and Grenville...but sometimes he wanted something else. Propping his chin is hand he let a sigh slid past his lips eyes lowering with the want for peace.

There was no way of knowing whether the colony was doing well, or who exactly that child was that he’d left on the shore. Was that the boy to which Finland had referred? He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Things were going south with Spain, he could feel it. The Spanish ambassadors were getting more and more demanding. Did they honestly think they could overpower him? An island nation? He chuckled, it was laughable indeed. He would stand against him and his self-righteousness. Spain must be thinking he rules the world, what with his colonies in the New World and fighting his way through Europe.

The thought of the New World took him right back to his earlier thoughts. He hoped that the men there were doing alright and were doing a stand up job of protecting their claim. His flag was on that land now, France and the others had no right to it. A door opened and closed from across the room, but considering that the person did not announce himself, it was likely only a servant coming to bring him ale or some food.

“You look positively melancholy, husband.” Elizabeth said as she settled onto a seat beside him.  He blushed and she laughed. He almost tipped out of his chair in order to rise respectively to his Queen, but she just waved him off. He settled back down and tried to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest.

“You should not call me that.” he said, certain that her impropriety would get her in trouble one of these days.

“I did declare long ago that I was married to you, right?”

“When you were a girl.”

“And again when I had been a foolish woman and made all the wrong allies. You are the only man that has never failed me.”

“You are my Queen. And I’m not exactly a man.” he replied, not sure what else he could say. He would be the first to admit that he rather liked her as a ruler, even if his brothers did not.

She smiled at him, and patted his hand. “Now, tell me why you are looking so sad.”

“I am thinking about the colony in the New World. I won’t be able to get any news about it for some time. Not to mention all of the trouble that Spain is causing me here.”

“Yes, the Spaniards are quite the thorn in our side, aren’t they?” she said. An announcement was called from the doorway and the secretary looked like he was going to faint at the sight of the Queen in the room.

"Your Majesty!" The man said.

"Carry on. I was just taking my leave." She stood up and offered her hand to England. He took it his own and pressed his lips to her fingers. She leaned close and kissed him on top of his head. "Do not be so distraught, Love."

The man stammered for a moment as the Queen exited before gathering himself and clearing his throat. "A Mr. John White to see you, my lord." the secretary said.

England furrowed his brow. The name was familiar, but he could not place him right away. "What's his business?" he asked.

"The American colonies."

England practically threw himself out of his chair. "Send him in at once." England stepped from behind the desk and rested on the edge. The man walked into the room and came before him with a bow. England had to restrain himself from twitching and rushing to the man to give him the news.

"My lord I bring word of the colony at Roanoke. We beseech the crown to send more goods and men as soon as possible, there has been a terrible struggle. When we arrived, we found no one, except a single skeleton. We decided to leave the colonists we had traveled with. My own granddaughter, the first English child born in the Americas amongst them. They are in desperate straights, sir." he said. England stared at his face, seeing the worry and lines. He'd left them when they were struggling and the passage was not short. England swallowed the lump he had in his throat.

"Of course, you will have aid. I will have it arranged." England said. He stood up so that he could look away and not let the man see the worry and hurt in his face. Was fate trying to thwart all his hopes? When he did not say anything for several minutes, John White turned to leave. England could hear his footsteps on the stone floor. "Wait."

"Sir?"

"A young boy with wheat colored hair... how is he?"

"Who?"

England whirled on him, "A child! In a white gown and light hair!"

White looked down for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "I remember seeing such a boy once or twice about the colony, but he would disappear back into the forest so quickly that I thought he was perhaps my imagination. I have not seen him for quite some time, not since the colony began running out of supplies."

The boy was missing. England's heart clenched in his chest. He squeezed his hands at his sides. "Thank you, Mr. White. You may speak to the secretary outside my chambers about supplies." White bowed and exited out of the room. England placed his palms on his desk and took a deep breath. The room felt stifling, he needed to get out.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt and headed out the back stair, frightening one of the servants as he headed down towards a door that led to the outside. He burst through the wooden door and was grateful that no one was milling around the entrance to the garden. He moved his way through the gate and disappeared amongst the hedges. He took deep breaths trying to keep the fear and upset welling up in his body. Had he lost him? Had he somehow lost the little boy?

"Angleterre?"

England cursed under his breath and wiped away at his eyes to get the tears that tried to escape. He hoped if he stayed quiet enough, France would go away and leave him be. It was not to be, he could see the other's clothing at the end of the hedgerow, too bright and French and just downright offending to the senses.

"There you are, Arthur!" France said, walking quickly toward him. England turned away, but it was too late. France had seen his face and when he grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around, England could tell France would latch on to his upset like a dog with a bone.

"Bit off more than you can chew, mon ami?"

"Hands off, Frog!" He snapped impatiently shaking the flamboyant man's hands from his shoulders. "I do not have enough patience to deal with you at the moment, harass me later if you must."

"Ah, but I want to see you now. I've been hearing things." he said, stepping back just far enough that England would not be able to take a swing at him.

"What sort of things?" England asked, narrowing his eyes. His fingers twitching themselves into loosely made fists as if in contemplation about musing the face of the ever 'perfect' frenchmen.

"Something about your attempts in the New World not going as well as you hoped." France said, grinning.

"I suggest that you hold your tongue! Remember whose land you are in right now Francis!" England threatened allowing his anger to break the walls of formality, familiarity bleeding into his vocabulary.

"This is what happens when you have a lack of planning, my dear friend. If Spain had not meddled in my affairs I would have a thriving colony by now." he said. France brushed his fingers through his hair, pulling golden locks over his shoulder.

"Oh just sod off" he muttered crossing his arms turning his body away ignoring the prick of tears. He swallowed quickly "Why are you here?"

“I had business.” France said, walking forward so he could stand beside England. He looked sidelong at the English nation and his expression softened. England turned away to hid his face, but too late, France had seen. “As for why I am here in this garden, I caught sight of you fleeing the palace and I know you only do that when you are angry or upset. It appears that I have gathered exactly what was your problem. Lost your little brother did you?”

"Stuff it." he muttered yet his voice lacked venom as he rubbed his arms. "I have lost no one, that I have not. You cannot lose something you never had." he whispered.

France frowned, "That is downright pathetic. You're being oddly demure today. Makes me want to hold you until you smile." France caught England around the shoulders and held him to his chest.

"France what in the bloody hell-" the English nation was caught between knocking the man's lights out or waiting until the tosser let him lose.  He was not pleased at the increased burning of his eyes.

"There is some of the England I know." France released him and patted him on the cheek.

"Dont touch me with those perverted hands!" He swatted at him, nose wrinkling, "Who knows where they have been!"

"There you are Angleterre!” France gave him a squeeze and kissed him on the side of the head before moving out of his reach. "Now that you are without your doldrums, I can get back to my business." He gave England a wink as he walked down the hedgerow and back towards the palace.

"Keep your dirty french hands off my proper English women!" He shouted after the adjacent blond. "I swear if I see you even look at them I'll beat you right and proper!"

"You're welcome to come at me any time, darling. I'll be ready for you." France shouted back, innuendo lacing his speech.

England might as well have been painting the roses red for the color of his face. "YOU BLOODY TOSSER!!!!" He screeched. France merely waved at him over his shoulder before disappearing out of sight. England was left fuming.

He turned and walked deeper into the garden, letting his anger burn. It kept away the cold of sorrow. He settled down onto a bench and tried to keep France's stupid face in his mind. It reminded him why he liked being alone, why it was stupid to hope. he sighed and let his head drop.  Dropping onto a stone bench with sigh he rested his forehead on his knees, the coldness seeped back into his soul. He worried about the little boy that had led him out of the woods. Could it be his fault? Should he have left the New World with Roanoke in such a state? If he had stayed would the colony have been successful? Would Grenville still be alive? What of the boy, maybe he could have coaxed him to stay with him?

Approaching footsteps against cobbled stone caused England to look up as a man approached him. Based on the plainness of his dress he was a minor noble. Yet it was not the mans state of dress that held his attention but the grave expression on his features "Forgive my intrusion, my lord."

"It's fine, what is it?"

"The Queen needs to see you at once. We are at war with Spain."

****  
  
  



	4. Of Battles and the New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which England faces off against Spain and England decides he needs to return to the New World.

~*~ Chapter Four ~*~

"Elizabeth!" the name was shouted in anger as the island nation stormed down a highly decorated hallway. He knocked the door open to the Queen's personal chambers. He ignored the shrieks of protest from her ladies-in-waiting that scurried to cover their majesty who was only donning a nightgown as the sun began to sink. Storming forward he shook his head in disbelief at the powerful woman who merely brushed off the panicked ladies.

"You signed the Treaty! You signed it before discussing it with me! Elizabeth, you had promised me we would discuss such matters before any decisions came forth!" He stopped in front of her throwing his hands into the air. "What were you bloody thinking!" He glared at the royal woman who sat upon the massive bed. She straightened out the dark-colored silk sheets with a bored expression upon her features.

"My love are you quite done with your tantrum?" Her eyes changed from amusement to a steely resolve as she gestured her ladies from the room. "At the time the decision had to be made your heart and mind were not here, but in the new land."

"You should have summoned me!" he retorted settling his small body upon the bed using the bedpost as back support, a frown tightening his expression.

"Hush husband and listen," she mirrored his frown pulling her legs beneath her, "Yes, I signed it, the Treaty of Nonsuch with the Dutch. How could I not with that pompous Spaniard Philip signing the Catholic League not but a year ago? Yes, the Dutch rebels are just that, rebels, but it is a blow to Spain that I am most fervent about." The firm tone of her voice left no argument for the blond man currently occupying her sleeping quarters.

"Specifics." a hushed demand was England's response as angry emerald eyes threatened to burn a hole through her. He attempted to seem as angry as possible, hoping to get the point across. Yet, he always did have a problem with staying mad at Elizabeth, no matter how much he tried, she always seemed to get her way.

"I have signed this treaty in agreement with Ministers Leicester and Walsingham as they have finally convinced me to aid their goal. The treaty states that as of August 1585, I,Queen Elizabeth of England, promise to send aid to the United Provinces. A total of 6000 men, 5000 of them being footmen and the last 1000, being horsemen. They will be guided by a quality person who holds true to the faith and holds the rank of Governor-General.” she finished, leaning back against her intricately carved headboard, folding her hands neatly upon her lap. She fixed her gaze firmly upon her nation, her eyes alight, challenging the boyish nation to argue with her decision.

He breathed slowly, as if not sure to yell or congratulate her. “I can’t believe you signed this without discussing with me. Guaranteed, I would have had you sign it,” he began, “BUT! You should have still contacted me.” He added the last bit as he saw the law of victory light inside of her eyes.

“It is something that needed to be done with the utmost haste.” Her expression turned serious “The spanish are becoming more and more of a problem and, frankly, I do not plan to sit around here like a simple woman that waits upon her husband.” Folded hands turned into folded arms. “It is over and done with, time to move on.” Stifling a yawn she glanced out the window as the sun disappeared from view, his sister the moon crawling into the sky to take her shift.

England stayed seated on the edge of the bed as she climbed beneath the blankets, wrapping her arms around a pillow. He’d known her her entire life, and yet still she could surprise him with her tenacity. He was proud of her.

She looked at him, a playful expression creeping back into her face, “You better get out of here, England, otherwise my ladies will think I’ve brought you into my bed.”

He blushed and jumped off the bed and walked out into the corridor. Her laughter followed him down the hall as he made his way to his chambers. His own bed waited for him and he dropped down into it in full dress, not bothering to call for a groom to help undress him. He climbed under his blankets and buried his face into a pillow. War with Spain, an Alliance with the Netherlands, France being his usual bothersome self… and that little nation that John White was going to go back to. So many things to consider, so many things to keep him up at night.

~*~

1597 - 12 years later

England stood on the cliffs staring out at the ocean. The wind whipped at his hair and pulled at his clothes. Elizabeth stood beside him, her red hair blowing about in the wind. Clouds rested on the horizon, innocent as a sleeping lambs, but England sensed a wolf within them. That wolf would place its jaws around Spain’s throat and crush him. He could sense it in his gut, in the ocean that lapped against his shores.

The war seemed to be stretching on and on, after the death of Scotland’s queen the Spanish ferocity had only increased. Battles had been fought on land and at sea, and word of the Spanish building a navy that had never before been seen had been making its way across his borders for months. Now the truth was out there, Spanish ships stretched across the horizon carrying thousands of soldiers that were ready to invade his home.

He could feel the tension and nerves that were built up in the army behind him and the men on the ships out on the ocean. He turned to Elizabeth, “I’m going to join them on the ships. I can’t wait to see that bastards face when I defeat him!”

She gave him a smile, “Your confidence makes me feel so much better about this entire ordeal. You do understand that we could be crushed by this attack.”

“No we won’t. No foreigner is going to defeat us on our own soil, in our own seas! It’s ours!” He felt fired up, warmth filling every limb. Despite the forest of masts on the horizon he had a feeling, a feeling that he would be triumphant this day. Elizabeth patted him gently on the cheek, as though humoring a child. She headed back towards her tent. “My lady, I’m going down to join with the navy.”

“If that is where you think you will be best suited.” She disappeared into her tent, the white flaps tied down against the wind that was brewing. Until the flap fell down behind her England caught a glimpse of the worried and stern faces of the nobles. They were worried, he could feel it in his bones.

He shook off their nerves and called for a horse. He rode until he reached the base of the cliffs where the sound of the waves crashing was the most intense. He let the beast go and joined the men on the shore that waited for him with a boat. The clouds were beginning to roll in, a darkness starting to fall and the wind beginning to blow harder, causing the waves to crash against the small vessel and rock the larger ships. The ropes dropped and the men tied them so the boat could be pulled up onto the ship. England did not want to wait, he climbed up the ropes and onto the deck.

“Coming to join us, England?” came a familiar voice from the bow, “Must be a fair omen that we will succeed indeed.” England looked up at one of the men who stood on the upper deck.

“Her Majesty did talk you into a command then, Sir Raleigh?”

“No ship was leaving once the Spaniards decided to come against us. Nothing would convince her to let me sail away.” he said. England strode across the deck towards him. Raleigh came down the stairs and waved a hand in the direction of the captain’s cabin. Lanterns shone through the open doorway, casting light on the faces of the men inside. Maps were spread across the table with markers laying about them, marking the direction of the wind and the location of the Spanish armada.

England leaned over the maps with the rest of the ship captains, this would be a glorious fight indeed.

~*~

The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder and salt and blood and the fearful sweat of men in battle. England loved every moment of it. The booming of the cannons and the crackling of splitting wood beneath the iron of a flying cannon ball.

The once innocent clouds had turned black and opened up their hearts to pour water down upon the combatants, pounding them from air and sea. England’s clothes clung to his skin, but he barely noticed the salt in his eyes, too focused on the nearest Spanish ship and sending it to the bottom of the ocean.

“The wind is on our side!” came a shout from the captain. The ship creaked as it turned, throwing some of the men into rumbling waves and  into the side of the vessel as she came around.

The cool air burned violently through his lungs , sight becoming like that of a steed with blinders.  His attention was barely disturbed by the screeching atmosphere.  His heart wept at each English men that was lead to deaths door but sang choruses of vengeance at every Spaniard that went as well.

"Fight them men! Spare not a single Spaniard!" He shouted "Send them to meet lady death in mangled heaps of torn muscle and bone! Swollen with the oceans salty blood as their body becomes food for her offspring! Remind them who England is!"

He tore his eyes from the  screaming ships adjacent his own and threw himself upon the gunwale grabbing a rope to anchor his body. Yanking his sword from the sheath he stabbed it into the air his captains coat whipping violently about his legs and torso and yell tearing from his throat "UT!! UT!! UT!! UT!! UT!!!  OLI CROSSE!!!!!!!!!!" His bloody call rolled and boiled with pride at the choruses of his men.

"ENGLAND!!!" A voice scorched with anger shot through the wind.  Eyes of emerald clashed with eyes of bright sienna.

"HA! Spain! About time you show your cowardly face!  I was positive that you had turned tail and ran, like the bloody cur you are!"

"Ingleterre! Eres tan estupido como un perro!" Stupid like a dog indeed, thought England.

The brunette country snarled as hair whipped about his tan face violently as if representing the rage in his body. His movements became jerky and almost sloppy as the ships drew nearer to each other.  

"IDIOT! You will swallow your own tongue and lay in a pool of blood from your own veins!" England yelled across the waves. The blond stared in mounting excitement as the adjacent man leapt up the ladder rope blade held between clenched teeth. He watched with thudding heart as Spain yanked a rope loose and twisted it about his hand, nimble body swinging into no man's land. Leaping back he slid across wet wood and blood bringing his blade forward. He watched, thrilled as the Spaniard released the rope, falling straight towards him.

"Pudrete en el infierno" Rot in Hell.

"BASTARD! Of course in hell I will rot! Yet it will be your corpse that will decompose alongside my own!" Knees buckled with weight and elbows popped in protest as blade met blade, steel singing into the air. Mirth twisted his mouth upwards back bowing underneath the Spaniard's weight.  "Have you decided it's time to get your ass handed to you, Spain?!"

"Ingleterre, I will sink your ship to the bottom of the sea with you tied about the mast! You have delusions of greatness, I am more than you will ever be." Spain snarled, swinging his blade around.

England caught the other man's blade yet again. "Gold means nothing on an ocean that is mine." said England. Leaping forward he pushed back with all his might, adrenaline fueling his stride. Back and forth blades screamed and protested as they struck each other. Whipping through the air lusting for a bite of blood and success.

The two nations were knocked off their feet when the masts of the two ships tangled bringing them together with a force that splintered wood and cast men overboard. Before England could get to his feet the ships tilted and sent him over the side.

The water was filled with debris and he struggled to get out of it before anything struck him from above. A current pulled at him, dragging him. He let the motion carry him, avoiding sinking sideboard and cannon balls that did not find their marks.

A sail drifted in the ocean beneath him, no doubt tangling a few unlucky souls and dragging them into the depths. As soon as he could feel air on his face he took a breath and then pushed his hair out of his eyes. He had surfaced several hundred feet from the ship. The rough water from the storm soon tore him even further away as waves traveled from the battle to the shore. A plank floated nearby and he grabbed on to it. He wanted desperately to rejoin the battle and to give Spain what was coming to him.

He couldn't see him as he was pushed closer and closer to shore. No matter, thought England, he hasn't seen the last of me, yet. As he drifted and his adrenaline cooled he considered Spain's words to him. Delusions of greatness, indeed. What did Spain know? England thought about the colony that was surely going to bring even greater wealth once he'd had men to properly discover it. He would show him. England had no doubt.

~*~

March 24, 1603 - 4 years later

The court had said their farewells and drifted out slowly, taking one last look at their monarch as she lay dying. England hovered near the foot of her bed, half-concealed in the drapery. He couldn’t look at her.

His fingers twisted in the heavy velvet and the lingering scent of the courtiers saying their farewells to their monarch threatened to choke him. He was afraid to breathe, afraid to speak, lest he let emotion get the better of him.

“England.” Her voice was frail, heavy with the sadness that was consuming her. There had been so much death in the past few years from illness, war, and age. When he looked up at her he was once again struck with the pain of knowing that his face looked the same as when they’d met and her own face that of an old woman. She raised her hand from the bedcovers to beckon him closer.

He moved and knelt by the edge of her bed. His fingers clasped around her thin, cold hands. She squeezed his fingers.

“You look sad, my love. Does death ever grow easier?”  she asked.

“No.” he said, he wanted to say more but his emotions choked him. He couldn’t afford to not be strong for her now, not when everything was about to crash down around his ears. He dreaded the moment she would die. The fact that the nobles and advisers had been whispering in dark corners gave him a concerted unease.

“What will you do when I’m gone?”

“I will continue on. You made sure I will continue on.” he whispered. She shifted on her deathbed to reach out. The tips of her fingers stroked his cheek. A weak smile crossed her lips.

“You were always the one I loved most of all.”

His breath caught in his chest. In his years, England had seen many monarchs come and go, their lives sometimes seeming to last eons, and others only moments. He gripped her fingers in his and pressed her hand to his face. “You will be remembered.”

Their eyes met. The light faded from hers and her breath stilled. The air shifted in the room and he knew she was gone. He held her hand for a few minutes longer, clinging to the last bits of life that remained in her body.

He stood, his knees protesting from kneeling on the stone floor. He walked slowly to the door, not looking back at the body. He stepped outside to the sorrowful faces of the English court.

“The Queen is dead.”

~*~

England approached his chambers in a daze. It was not until he had entered his rooms that he realized he had a shadow. When the door didn’t close with a satisfying thud, he figured a servant had come after him. He turned to dismiss the man, but the person standing there was no low level noble to serve him.

“Scotland.”

“Little Brother.”

“Go away.”

“No.”

England turned his back on him and went further into the room. He heard his brother close the door behind them. England swallowed, he wouldn’t let Scotland bully him. He straightened his shoulders and turned to face him. Scotland raised an eyebrow, waiting for England’s speech. “Elizabeth may have just died, but we are still the United Kingdom and I am in charge.”

A smile slid onto Scotland’s face. “Not anymore.”

England frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Plain English, Little Brother. You made sure I knew how to speak it. I mean what I said.” England’s frown deepened. He turned away to ring for a servant, if Scotland was going to play games with him he might as well have some ale to better deal with it. A servant came quickly and darted back out again to fetch the required drink. When England turned back to the sitting room, Scotland had taken a seat, without a by your leave, in England’s chair.

England’s stomach sank. He’d been hearing whispers here and there about the prospect for his next ruler. Every time he attempted to inquire after the machinations of Cecil and some of the other lords his searches came to nothing. The way that Scotland was looking at him now gave him all the answer he needed. A plot had succeeded.

He didn’t say anything until after the servant had come with the jug of ale and subsequently left. The silence lay heavy in the room. The sound of the ale hitting the bottom of the cup jolted his mind, but faded with the beating of his heart. He downed a cup. Damn, I should have called for wine. he thought.

“Are you going to speak, England, or merely drown yourself in ale.” asked Scotland when England started in on the third cup.

“James is king,” England choked out, “That’s why you look so gleeful.” England’s fingers tightened around the cup when he heard Scotland laugh. James was the only son of Mary, Queen of Scots, executed years ago by Elizabeth for treason. They had been cousins, he was the closest in blood to the throne. England’s stomach soured.

“Regretting your actions now? Which one I wonder, Elizabeth murdering his mother or refusing to bear any sons for England? You know that relationships with humans---” Scotland was cut off when an ale cup struck him in the chest. England regretted that it wasn’t his face.

“How dare you.”

Scotland paused trying to brush the liquid off his jerkin. He looked up at England, green eyes flashing, “Or what?”

“Or…” England realized there was nothing he could threaten. Scotland’s king was now also Ireland’s and his own king. He had lost his place, again. He shifted, positioning himself absentmindedly between Scotland and the door.

“That is what I thought, England.” Scotland stood up from the chair and walked towards the door. He bumped into England's shoulder and stopped. England refused to look at him, staring instead into the embers of the fireplace. He felt a hand on his head. "Don't worry, Little Brother, we're still the United Kingdom, only this time I'm in charge."

A creak as the door opened. Scotland left, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

England felt cold. He'd lost his monarch and his seat. He stood glowering at the fire for another moment before stamping across the room. He picked up the chair Scotland had just vacated and flung it hard into the wall, shattering the wood and knocking down an old tapestry. He picked up the pieces and flung them into the embers. The hearth began to blaze.

"I'll show you, Scotland." he said through gritted teeth. What he would show his older brother, he wasn't quite sure, but he was certain that he would.

~*~

“The bloody hell were they thinking bringing that Spanish bastard into my country and into Somerset house no less.” grumbling from the island nation filled the hall as the blonde stormed down its length, followed hurriedly by the man, whatever his name be, who was to attend him to the meetings. James the first of England and the sixth of Scotland was now the ruler of his country. He wasn’t sure what to think about he man just yet. He seemed as if was to have a decent head upon his shoulders. England however had no lost love for his mother, Queen Anne of Scots had given Elizabeth much trouble.

The country had been in her bed chambers at night to see how much rage that woman had caused his dear Elizabeth. Yet he had known her father Henry VII and was slightly conflicted on his feelings for the human male. Yes, Henry was, at the beginning, of his reign responsible for restoring political stability to his country but by the end of his reign it was filled with financial problems and distrust. But, that was his father, he was more than willingly to give James a clean slate. Approaching the door he came to stop taking in a deep breath, tugged at the bottom of his tunic and straightened his back. Grabbing the handle he pushed it open and entered the room, shoulders back and head high.

The meeting continued on without much haste and England hadn’t been paying much attention. His focus was on the other nation seated across the way from him. He refused to break the glare that the Spanish male had locked with his own. If it wasnt for the good of his people he would have had no problem leaping over the table and planting his fist into his face. Keeping his gaze locked with Spain he was well aware of the pens scratching against parchment, the shuffling, the loud argumentative exclamation. The war had been going on for years  and his people were becoming exhausted. It was time for this to end. It seemed as if hours had passed before the men about the two nations began to calm, this was it the time for the final decision. Sitting back in his chair England tilted his head in acknowledgment as a man cleared his throat. Enrolling the parchment fully the human began to read the verdict.  

The protestant reformation has been protected inside of his land and James had refused the Spanish demand that they tolerated Catholics. At this slight burn stirred within the blonde nations breast, this meant many wars inside of his land were still to come.  Along with this he also had to stop supporting the Dutch. This did not sit well either for he was good friends with the other nation, he would have to discuss this in private with James later. Despite this, England bit back a chuckle, his privateers mixed with the Dutch had destroyed much of Spain’s maritime  commerce and it did not look as if Spain would be able to build it back up anytime soon. A smirk of amusement lifted his mouth as he felt the waves of anger role of the brunette nation. Bloody fool thats what you get for messing with the English.

The scraping of chairs against the floor brought him back once again from his own mind. Good that was over. Filled with mild impatience England shook the hands of everyone that was deemed appropriate, though he wasn't sure if he could call what Spain and he exchanged a handshake, more like each one was trying to snap the others hand. Waving at the man that had followed him in he swept into the hall, pleased to be moving on to the next topic. Long legs filled with energy and purpose as he pushed out into the street. All of this had delayed him from doing what he really wanted. Colonial efforts had been delayed and as they now entered into the 17th century it was time to turn back to the new world, to that little boy.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Spring 1610

The open ocean took a weight off of his soul. England felt free at last. Scotland could have his day, he would deal with him when he got back. For now, though, he was going back to fresh and new. The seas no longer churned red and he was not in the midst of a war. King James had concluded the war with Spain and for now everything was back in equilibrium. He looked west. He let go of the tribulations of the Continent and would think only of that land across the sea. 

The ship was filled with relief goods to the settlers who had been too long without goods, surviving the strange New World. England leaned against the bow of the boat and watched the waves lap up against the wood. In the blue churning of a wave he was reminded of the little boy who had waved goodbye. The little brother that he'd gone looking for and had only briefly met. He swallowed the nervousness that rose in him at the thought of what White said all those years ago. The man had not seen the boy. England shook his head, it was not strange for a young nation to be wary of humans. He himself had hidden from the kingdoms when he was small and his people fought over him and the land. Just because no one had seen the little country did not mean anything. 

He reminded himself of that everyday as he impatiently strode along the deck wishing that there was a way to travel that would take only days instead of weeks. The captain set him to simple tasks, understanding the nation needed a distraction as he got farther and farther from his homeland. 

The weeks passed by, and England felt lighter and more hopeful with each passing one. Gone was the annoyance of Spain, Scotland's snide face, Ireland looking at him with rebellious eyes. They could all go to hell, he thought to himself. A new colony and a little brother that wouldn't have the history he had with his own brothers was waiting for him. He could feel it in his heart. 

"Land!"

England dropped the wooden toy he'd taken to carving and jumped up from his seat. He climbed hastily towards the wheel and took the proffered spy glass. He held it up and looked at the coast of the New World... America, they had been calling it on the maps in the recent years. 

"America." whispered England, the sea breeze carrying away his words toward the new land. Only a few more hours now and he would be setting foot on the shore. 

~*~

"Planning on wearing a new trail in the deck of my ship, m'lord?" the captain said, smiling as they anchored the ship in the bay. The ship that had gone ahead of their own was already steady and smoke rose above the fence that wrapped around Jamestown. England continued to pace, despite the concerned stares of the crewmen, as they readied the boats. Something felt off about the settlement, and it made England feel twitchy.

"Ready to go ashore!" came the call and England lowered himself into the boat, taking note of the few people standing on the shore. The minutes to shore felt stretched into eternity. Great was England's anticipation.

The men standing on the shore looked gravely at the newcomers. English shoulders that once fixed with firm pride, bowed beneath the weight of malnourishment and despair. Cheeks that upon arrival had been bright with the coloring from the sea wind and high with smiles now sunk into faces, pulled down with frowns. It was a mixture of relief and resentment that focused on those upon the ship. 

"We've had great hardships over the past winter when we had no supplies. Many of those who survived won't speak of the travesty that they suffered. We can only imagine the worst." said a delegate from the Virginia Company. England nodded. The man continued to speak, but England barely heard a word after that. He just looked at every face and could sense their suffering and the unease of those that first arrived to find them in their misery. 

Nowhere he looked could he find the little boy that had waved goodbye to him so many years ago. Based on the suffering he saw around him he felt worried. "Mr. Percy," England said, "There was a child with the colony. Mr. White informed me years ago that he was not familiar with him. Have you... possibly?"

The man turned and looked at him, "Sometimes he is here and sometimes he is not."

"Is he here now?"

"No, yesterday he ran outside the town gates and no one has been able to go and look for him." 

England turned on his heel and walked towards the towering tr andees that could be seen above their skeletal compatriots that protected the settlement. Once beyond the log wall he paused in the empty space between civilization and the wilderness. That boy had found him in the wilderness once, would he come to him again?

England searched as far as he could before making the decision to turn back at dusk. As he approached the settlement he felt exhausted. His feet ached and his eyes burned as they begged for sleep. 

“Today was rather futile.” he murmured to himself as he entered the sparse scattering of buildings along the edges. Reaching towards the sky he stretched with a groan. Few people milled about this late yet those out wished him a good evening. Nodding and smiling in response he made his way back to his personal lodging. Closing the door behind him he pulled his shoes off leaving by the door as he entered the small home. Eyes sliding over the small parlour that lead into the kitchen and dining area on one side and on the other a tall stairwell that lead to a second floor with the rooms for sleeping. Stopping momentarily to consider a quick supper, tiredness won out. Making his way up the stairs he sighed as he moved into the hall. There on opposite side was two rooms, one that he had taken up residence in and then other remained empty. Here in Jamestown he lived alone, much different than what he was used to at home in the castle.

His bedroom was plain, filled only with a singular bed, a bedside table and one bookshelf that seemed to bow underneath the weight of many books. Shrugging out of his clothes he exchanged the articles for a bedtime gown. Pulling back the covers he groaned as he slid into the comfort of his own bed. 

“Tomorrow is going to be a repeat, at least I hope it will end differently.” he stared at the wooden ceiling. It was not long before the sandman came and fulfilled his quota. To the countries distress and despair the next day turned out to be exactly the same.

~*~

He searched for days with no success. One evening when he came back into the settlement he noticed another ship anchored in the bay. He squinted into the last of the sunlight and considered going back into the forest and sleeping under a tree. There was no way just any French ship had stopped by, France was here.

England scowled and walked towards the governor's house. Despite owning his own home it was quite common for him to return to the governor's house to retire for the night. Hoping that maybe sometime the child would return to the home where he had been staying and that England would be able to run into him. The narrow streets were empty, all residents of Jamestown had gone inside their homes for the evening. He tried to enter the house as quietly as possible, maybe if he could just retire to his room...

"Angleterre!" 

Damn it. England thought. He turned towards the small parlor where a fire lay in the hearth. A concerned Mr. Percy looked grateful for the relief of another Englishman as France lounged in his chair, somehow looking perfectly pressed and laundered despite the fact that he'd just been on the ocean. England tried not to think of the mud on his boots and the wrinkles in his clothes.

“France.” he said, sitting down. The governor of Jamestown exited the room with the excuse to bring his country something to eat. “Why are you here?”

“I heard of your troubles and thought you would need comforting.”

“I don’t need your help.” For any of it. England thought. He frowned at the other man. France’s smile didn’t waver. 

“I would have you know, friend --”

“I am not your friend.”

France cleared his throat, interrupting England’s protest. “I would have you know, that your quest to achieve a younger brother is for naught.”

England narrowed his eyes. He didn’t say anything. Was the reason the young nation wasn’t here was because France got a hold of him already? A fire started to grow in his stomach. If France had stolen his little brother he would get him back. The Frenchman wouldn’t get him without a fight.

France continued in his speech. “He’s such a sweet boy, my Canada. Quebec is going to be a grand colony.” Momentarily, the Frenchmen seemed to get lost in his own ‘cooings’ and fawnings over the new child. Lost in his own ‘Frenchie’ world.

His name is America. England thought. 

“It’s certainly more successful than this hovel of a town you’ve created. What were you thinking putting a city in a swamp?” 

England clenched his jaw. 

“Ah, by the way, Angleterre, would you like to see a portrait of my boy?” France reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small disc. England reluctantly took the small painting and looked at it. His eyes widened. The boy in the picture was not the same boy he’d seen on these shores. He looked similar certainly, but there were a few things that were different. Could he have changed? No, England thought, there is more than one.

England passed the portrait back trying to hide the relief he felt in his chest. His boy was still out there somewhere. He had been staring at his hands. He looked up. France gave him a strange look. “What?”

“You know something.”

“No.” England said, too quickly. France raised his eyebrows. He considered England for several minutes. England looked away from him and tried not to give away anything else to the older nation. He focused his attention on the wood grain of the ceiling. 

France’s boots slammed into the floorboards as he stood up. “There is another one!”

“I said no such thing.”

“The fact that you are not raging at your loss means you have another card up your sleeve. This is why you always lose at card games.”

“I do not always lose at card games!” France gave him a disbelieving look before sweeping past him towards the door. 

“I must return to my ship.”

England followed after him, “What are you up to, France?”

France grinned at him, “Absolutely nothing.”

“He’s mine! He will never be yours!” England shouted after him. France merely waved at him over his shoulder and exited out of the town with the retinue of men to row him back out into the bay. England returned inside the house and entered his room. He needed a new plan.

~*~

The next morning dawned cool but bright, spring was slowly creeping into the land. England sat on a rock just inside the forest listening to the sounds of birds he did not know, wondering what was out there, and waiting for the little nation that he’d seen decades ago. He frowned when he thought of France. The ship was gone that morning, but that meant nothing. France could have stayed behind to do some scouting. England thought then of Netherlands up the coast, could he have the little boy? He shook his head, Mr. Percy had said he’d seen the child only days ago, so he must be here somewhere. 

He took a bundle out of his bag. The parcel was tied in a cloth and contained some of the food stores they had resupplied the colony with. He pinched off a piece of the bread and popped it into his mouth as he thought about what to do next. 

An idea struck him.

He climbed off of his perch and set the food out. If the child had been as hungry as the people in the town, no matter his fear he should come for it. He left the food there and walked back towards the town. He went to work alongside the people in Jamestown, doing repairs and prepping gardens. He couldn't stop himself from glancing now and then towards the gate, wondering what he would find when he went back out.

The sun was on its way down and he stepped out to check the place where he had left the food. The pouch was empty on the stone. He looked around the space, his eyes sweeping over the ground. There! Small indentations in the dirt of small bare feet. He sat down his back to the stone, wondering if the little colony was still somewhere nearby. As the light disappeared from the sky he decided he could not keep vigil any longer.

"I'll be back tomorrow, America." he said to the dark trees, then walked back to the settlement.

~*~

The little boy shifted, poking his head out from behind the tree. He watched the strange person walk back to the town. The people inside had been so sad and hurt, and it had scared him. But, this person was different. He could sense he was more like him. 

~*~

England returned every day, going out first thing, leaving a little snack or some other thing that would interest a child. Every evening when he returned it was gone. It was a Sunday morning and it had dawned bright as the summer wore on. The forest had greened since he'd arrived and the flowers were starting to bud. Today, he was going to wait. The child had taken to leaving small tokens behind in place of whatever England 

He set down the package at the edge of the forest. Inside was a stuffed animal, a little rabbit, that he'd made out of some discarded cloth. America had been interested in some of the toys before. Anxiety began to roll inside of his chest, stepping back a couple of steps he turned, looking around the open field with trepidation. Digging his heel into the dirt he paced back and forth, getting lost in his own racing thoughts. 

Dropping down after nearly an hour of pacing, he heaved a sigh looking up into the sky. It was nearly flawless, like glass spun by the master of the trade. The scene was only marred by a few clouds floating here and there. There was no smoke from chimneys or cooking fires. He could hear the birds in the trees and the way the leaves rustled against the branches. There was no clop of horses’ hooves on stone paths or the shouts of merchants selling their wares. It was blissful peace.

A rustle in the grass caused him to look quickly from the sky, worried of danger. A child with bright blue eyes stood there with the toy in his arms, his face as startled as England’s. His heart pounded in his chest. There he was. America tilted his head and looked at him curiously.

England reached a hand out for him. The little boy looked him in the eye, his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“It’s just a handshake, America.”

America looked from England’s face to his hand. He reached out tentatively. The tips of his fingers touched England’s. He looked up into England’s face and smiled. England could feel a warmth grow in his chest. 

"Angleterre!" 

They both jumped. America ducked back behind the tree. England held back a curse. 

"What are you doing out here all by yourself? Ah!" America had poked his head back out of the brush, now staring at France. “Eh, so this is little America that you’ve been trying to starve into non-existence. Not as cute as my Canada, but…” France moved closer to sit beside England and held out his own hand. America looked at both of them, his eyes afraid once again.

“France! Sod off before you scare him off!” 

“What are you talking about, England? It’s probably those eyebrows of yours that are scaring him! Come here, mon petit Amerique.” 

“Frog!” the english country hissed, anger frothing in his chest. Looking at the child he breathed in deeply praying for calmness. He didn’t want to scare the child more than the boy already was. He moved away from France and took slow careful steps to put some distance between himself and the other European nation. He crouched down once again and held out his hand.

“America, if you stay with me you’ll grow up to be big and strong. We will dominate the New World together.” America looked at him.

“America” England faltered as eyes glued onto the french country next to him. The pit in England’s stomach grew heavier. This was really unfair to the child to be pulling on him back forth like a childs game of tug of war. Dropping back on his heels he grabbed at his ankles a distraught look upon his face.

“Good of you to accept defeat.” France said to him, grinning. He beckoned to the young nation, “Come here and you can live with me and have fine French food every day.”

America looked from one to the other. He’d seen both nations wandering around where he was born, as well as others who were settling further up the coast. The one who smiled at him with the long light hair was pretty much a stranger to him. He’d seen him occasionally, but only ever in the northern most places. He looked away from him to the man sitting on the ground. 

He remembered him from the forest so long ago, before the scary times when the people got hungry and died. 

“Well, have at it then France” he pushing off his knees and back to standing. Raking his hand through his hair he turned, planning to go back to Jamestown and help out. He might as well have been useful.

“Wait!” America hurried over to him, catching him at the back of his leg. “Don’t go away, Big Brother.”

“Excuse me?” England turned quickly to stare down at the small child. He was pretty sure that he was beginning to hallucinate. Maybe his ale had been a tad on the stronger side this morning.

“You came back after the scary time. I don’t want you to go away again.”

“The scary time?” Lowering himself back down with caution, so as not to startle the child, he looked the child in the eye holding his breath.

“It was cold and the people in the town were scared… I was scared…” Tears welled up in his eyes. He rubbed at his eyes, clutching the little toy England had made for him. 

“Shh. Its okay, its over” England’s voice dropped an octave as his gaze took in the sight of the small child. The boy had been obviously terrified during that time and it hurt the older nations heart. The child wouldn’t have had to go through such an ordeal alone if England had been able to come back sooner. Reaching out, hesitantly, he laid his hand upon the third blondes head in a comforting gesture. “You're fine now, its over”

England looked up when he heard a chuckle. He frowned at France. The other just smiled at him and stood up, dusting off his clothes. “You win this time. He must see something in you that no one else does.” England frowned, watching France walk away. He opened his arms and the little country climbed into them. 

“From this day on, I’ll protect you.”


	6. Time's Exchanges

Summer 1611

In Which It Is Time To Get Clean

“America!” the older nation called from the bathing room. England found himself elbow deep in what moments ago was scalding water. Hands working furiously together over a bar of soap, the nation worked hard to build a lather and suds to foam about the water. It was Thursday night, bath night. It was no surprise that the smaller boy was missing. Shaking off his hands England pushed himself to his knees, patting his hands upon his britches. Grabbing one of the spare candles he moved across the room, overstepping the short stack of towels by the bottom of the basin.

“America!” he sighed entering the hall, pausing just outside the room he couldn’t but roll his eyes as the sound of young laughter was heard. “America, we can play hide-n-seek but the minute I catch you it is wash time.” Moving down the hall he made sure that footsteps were heavy, walking past the room he knew that the child was in he paused. 

“America? Where are you?” Pushing against the door lightly, he thanked the Lord that the door didn’t squeal in protest. Peering into the child’s room his eyes caught toys scattered about the floor, streaming from the tousled blankets threatening to cover the floor. It was there that two small feet stuck out, toes wiggling in near sync with excited laughter. Creeping in he placed the candle on the floor and crawled over to the bed. “Gotcha!” reaching quickly he scooped the small boy out from beneath the bed and into the air. 

The little boy giggled. England held him close and tickled him. “Now it’s time for your bath.”

America suddenly became very serious, pouting, “No, Engwand. No bath.”

England mirrored the boy’s expression, holding him out at arm’s length, “America, this is not a negotiation.”

“Yes, negoti---, nego---” The child stumbled over the word.

“Negotiation.” he said, enunciating each syllable. America watched his mouth form the words, picking up the inflection. Green eyes softened as the boy placed his hands on the island nation’s mouth, small eyes wide as he felt the elder speak the word again slowly.

“What’s a negotiation?”

“When two people talk together to make a decision. But as your guardian, no negotiation.”

“At all?”

“Well, perhaps on some things.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll get back to you. Now bath time, America.” America pouted in his arms. Avoiding the child’s face was the best course of action at the moment. For more often than not, a pouty lip and watery eyes usually got the colony whatever he wanted. Wrapping his arms about the child he picked up the candle from the floor as well and moved back down the hall, foot steps muffled by the hall rug. “If we take care of this quickly we may have time for a story before bed” England smiled, brightening at the excited expression taking over America’s face.

“Engwand do you promise?” 

“I promise.” He sat America down beside the tub and ruffled his hair. “Arms up” he eased the dress like clothing over his head.

“Brr. Cold” America shivered, small feet shuffling with discomfort.

“That’s why the water is hot, love” England smiled lifting the small child once again, this time depositing him inside of the basin of water and soap. Groping for the pitcher beside the tub, he told the young nation to close his eyes so that he wouldn't get soap inside of them. Waterfalling the soapy mixture over the lad he couldn’t help but chuckle at the small hands that stirred the water in mimed protest. “Better now that the chill has been taken away?”

“Yeah.” America nodded rubbing water from his eyes to look up at him. The child turned his attention back to making small waves and ripples in the water as England soaked the wash rag and began to rub it along pale skin gently.

“Oy! Careful there lad” England scowled leaning back as water sloshed over the edges. The younger looked sheepishly at him.

“Oops, sorry.” he whispered and England merely sighed ruffling the boys wet hair.

“Just be more careful next time okay?” Getting a nod of confirmation from America he wrung the rag, placing it in the pitcher. “All right, to your feet right quick” 

The boy scrambled to his feet in response, only be to be grabbed up inside of a overly large towel and pulled from the tub. The world grew dark momentarily as England rubbed the towel along the boys head to dry his hair. “You know lad you wouldn't have to be washed so often if you would just stay out of the dirt.”

“But it’s fun! And she is fast so sometimes I slip while running with her” America protested pushing aside the towel to look up at him. “It’s lots of fun” he repeated at the incredulous look that was being given to him.

“You’ve been out playing with a girl?” England finished toweling off the small, body, careful of the quickly nodding head. Grabbing a freshly cleaned gown he pulled it over the boys head gently. “What is her name, America?”

“Pocahontas” he beamed and England stopped to stare at him. 

“Pardon?”

“Pocahontas” America repeated “Po-ca-han-tas” he finished with a loud clap.

“Pocahontas” he murmured to himself gathering up the bathing supplies. That name certainly wasn’t one he was used to having on his tongue. Which meant that it was more than likely one of the children from the Indian tribes about the area. A spark of worry lit inside of the european nation.

“Yes, that’s one of her names” America continued as he pushed his arms back through his sleeves. “Her mother and father gave her many names. I can’t know her first one though. Only her parents can know it. But she said since we were such good friends I could learn her second and third name. So i know Pocahontas and then I know Amonute.” he smiled proudly as he finished dressing. 

“That’s very interesting America.” England looked back at the boy as he picked up one of the candles once again. 

“Oh storytime!” America squealed as he realized they were leaving. Yanking at England’s britches excitedly he hopped up and down as the elder laughed. 

“All right lad patience! Yes we can be on our way.”

~*~

Winter 1612

A Child’s Dreams Are Not Always Pleasant

“E-Eng-w-wanddddd!” was the cry that startled the mussy haired blond back into consciousness. Green clashed with blue as England found himself staring at the tear stained, snot running, puffy face of a crying America.

“America what is wrong.” England tossed the blankets from his form and scrambled to his feet. His grunted as the small child slammed into him clutching at his sleeping robes.  
“E-engwand scary” America sobbed 

“What’s scary, love?” England moved back to his bed and scooped the sobbing child into his lap coddling him.

“B-bad d-dream” the small blonde hiccuped rubbing at his cheeks and sniffing loudly.

“A bad dream” England blanched staring at the child in mild disbelief. To be so overly distraught over a nightmare. That was absolutely absurd. Yet any scolding retorts dropped from his tongue as he looked once more at the terrified expression upon America’s face. A sense of protection squeezing tightly about his chest. Before he knew what he was doing he found himself making calming noises at the child.

“ It is alright America. You’ll be fine, you are safe here. I will protect you” he shushed the small nation rocking back and forth. It was a few moments later that the loud hiccups and crying faded into sniffles. 

“A bad dream isn't real,” he assured the child stroking his hair, “shall we head back to bed now?” Startled as the boy fisted his hand into the fabric of his nightshirt.

“I-I don’t wanna go back to my room,” he protested, “I don’t want to be alone.” Watery blue eyes looked up at him in fright. “Can I stay here with you?” America begged quietly.

“Well...” England started yet those eyes silenced him. He had half a mind to send the child back to bed. It didn’t do well to coddle a child in such a way. Yet, despite the misgivings he couldn't stop himself from saying, “How about you stay tonight with me?”

Warmth flooded his chest as the small child looked up at him excitedly, blue eyes catching the moonlight shoving through the shutters. “Just tonight.” he added quickly.

“Okay!” America scrambled off of his lap and into England’s bed. Scrabbling beneath the blankets he twisted into their comfort, small laughter alerting the island nation of the happiness that filled the younger one.

“Honestly America” England sighed, yet could not stop the smile that was tugging at his lips as he also slid back beneath the covers. “Come here you” he smirked and pulled the child to him kissing the top of the giggling nations head. “No do come on, it is time for sleeping” the words had barely had passed his lips before a yawn interrupted him. Stroking the blonde headed child he watched as sleep quickly returned to him once more. For such a small body, he produced much heat. A small bundle of warm curled against the Briton’s chest. Small breaths filled the normally silent room and lulled the last one to sleep.

England told himself it would be the first and only time. His resolve did not last past the next pleading look.

~*~

Summer 1614

Brothers

America peered through the leaves of the low growing alder watching England walk towards the settlement. The morning dew still clung to the branches making his hair stick to his forehead and the wetness made England’s boots squelch. America thought it was a funny sound. England had been gone for a month checking a few of the other land holdings in the area. America had taken the opportunity to escape into the forest. The creek made too much noise for him to hear what the older nation said to the boy in his arms. America frowned, he had wanted to show England all that had been happening with the farms, the people in Jamestown seemed really excited about the tobacco they had grown. America didn’t understand why, but he was sure England would explain it to him.

He crept closer, hiding behind some of the other plants that England had insisted they grow near the house. England went inside, taking the skinny little boy with him. America waited, he could hear England calling for him, but he did not want to go in. England would have to find him. England came back outside after a few minutes, a frown pulling his eyebrows together. America almost came out then, not wanting England to be sad, but no, he was going to wait. 

England sat the other boy down in front of the door and said, “Stay here, Canada, I have to go look for America.” The other boy nodded, his back was to America and he could not see his face. England strode off towards the outskirts of town. The little boy sat down and waited.

When he was sure England was gone, America came out of his hiding spot as quietly as he could. He snuck closer to the other boy. “Hello!” The other boy jumped and turned to him, eyes wide. 

“Umm… Bonjour…” His voice was quiet. America leaned closer.

“You look like me!” said America. The other boy squinted at him and nodded.

“Monsieur England says we are brothers.” America tried not to chuckle at the other’s voice. It was so odd. 

“What is your name?”

“Papa France calls me Quebec sometimes, but also Canada. What is your name?”

“America, but sometimes they call me Virginia. England told them to stop though because he’s going to get more land for me.” America skipped around the other boy, curious about him. He was not quite the same, but pretty darn close. “Do you want to play?”

“America!” America froze. Canada turned away from him and looked at England for a moment. England must have looked angry because Canada looked down at his feet. “Where have you been? The governor said that you haven’t been seen since I left! Just because I leave does not mean you do not have to follow my rules!” 

America leaned towards Canada. “We’ll play later.” he whispered before turning on his heel and running back into the forest. 

“America!” England shouted after him. America did not run far, just deep enough into the bushes to hide. He expected England to come after him, hide and seek being one of America’s favorite games. He looked back through the bushes and frowned. England was not following him. He was standing on the path to the house, Canada by his side. The older nation’s arms were crossed. He slackened his stance and America could imagine the sigh even though he could not hear it. England bent over and picked up Canada and went into the house.

What was going on?! England never ignored him like that. He was always ready to play after he was gone. What was so special about that other boy anyway? He hid beneath the bushes considering until his stomach started to rumble. It was midday now and he was hungry.

He trudged towards the house knowing that England would be cooking something inside. Smoke rose from the chimney. He paused outside the door, unsure now that there was someone else in the house with England. No one is more important than me, England said so. he thought. He raised his chin and opened the door following the smell of food to the small kitchen. A fire was going and Canada was sitting at the table. England was bent over a pot of something he had just pulled from the flames. 

Canada’s eyes went wide at the look on America’s face as he pulled himself up on the bench next to the other boy. He looked like he wanted to say something, but America only looked at him for a moment before glaring daggers at England’s back waiting for him to turn around.

When he did, America stared him in the eye. England raised an eyebrow and waited. America did not say anything. England finally said, “I see you finally decided to join us, America.”

Nothing.

“Did something happen while I was away?”

No, just when you got back. America thought.

“America, you will have to say something if you want a meal.”

“I’m hungry.” England gave him an exasperated look and America felt a little sad at the look directed towards him. He could not say what he wanted though, not in front of the interloper. England served them both and America listened as he talked about his business in the other colonies. 

“I also thought that it would be better for you and Canada to live together.” England announced across the table. Both boys looked up at him from their food.

“Papa France will not like that…” Canada muttered, America was not even sure if he really heard.

“How come we have to share?” America said, crossing his arms and mimicking the stern look he had seen on England’s face when he demanded an answer from him. 

“America, you two might find yourselves together quite often soon.” England said, as if that would be the end of it. He got up to put more food on America’s plate. England had them both stay around the house while he checked in on things in the village and America begrudgingly showed Canada around. 

“Your home has more people.” Canada observed from the tree branch below America. They had climbed it to get a better view. He had to help the other colony, Canada wasn’t as strong as he was.

“How many does your have?”

“Only a few hundred and they come and go a lot. It gets lonely.” he was quiet for a minute, “That femme has yellow hair like us!” Canada pointed. It made America laugh.

“You have never seen a woman with yellow hair?”

Canada shook his head, “Papa France says he is trying to send me more French women, but my lands are too wild and none want to come.”

Later, they played tag until the sun went down. England gathered them up and took them back to the house for bed.

The two younger boys snuck into England’s room after he had put them to bed. America felt a victory brewing when England let them sleep with him. America had just managed to make sure that he got to sleep closer to England by placing himself in between Canada and the older nation when a pounding came on the door. England was up in an instant, cursing under his breath. The moonlight shone through the window and America could see him clearly.

“Stay here, America.” he said. He padded out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. America could hear his footsteps on the wood floor planks, as the banging came again. America heard the house door creak open.

“Damn it all to hell, what do you want at this hour?” said England. the door hit the wall with a thump. Canada rubbed at his eyes sleepily.

“What’s going on?” he asked. Footsteps pounded on the wood.

“I know you have him! I turn my back for an instant and you…!” The door flung open and the boys jumped. America grabbed on to Canada, if it was another attack he was going to protect him. He turned his face towards the intruder.

“France!” England grabbed the other nation by the back of his jacket and pulled him half out into the hallway so that he could shove himself in between France and the two boys. 

France thrust a finger into England’s face, “He does not belong to you.”

“He will.”

“I could say the same thing about myself and little Amerique.” France tried to push his way around the Englishman. America watched the exchange and in between the shouting of the two older nations he could hear a quiet sniffling at his back. He turned, Canada sniffed, tears in his eyes. America was stunned for a minute, then remembered what England did for him when he cried. He was not big enough to hold him or rock him, but he patted his hair. America started to sniffle himself, not sure why. “Angleterre, you idiot, you’ve made them cry!”

“You’re the idiot who came stamping in here at all hours.” England huffed, but America could feel him trying to pick him up off the bed. His hands slid off Canada as they were pulled apart into their respective parent country’s arms. Canada half-buried his face in France’s coat, but his eyes caught America’s. America didn’t want him to go.

“Come along, Canada, I will take you home.” France said.

“No!” America said, struggling against England’s hold, “He’s my brother and I want to play with him!”

Surprise crossed France’s face as America wiggled out of England’s grip and ran across the bed to grab hold of the back of Canada’s clothes. France looked away from him and raised an eyebrow at England. America looked back and forth between them, not understanding the silent exchange they shared.

“Are you really going to take the boy tonight?” England asked, he gestured at America’s hand still balled in Canada’s clothes, “They bonded.”

France made an annoyed sound but set Canada back down on the bed. Silence ensued again as America pulled Canada back under the blankets. “You can have the hayloft in the barn, France.”

“In Hell I will!” 

“Where do you expect to sleep, then!?”

“With you, of course.”

“In Hell you will!” 

“Come now England, the night breeze will give me a chill.”

Silence ensued again as England gifted France with his best glare. America pulled the blankets over his head to drown them out. He had nearly drifted off to sleep curled up with Canada when two heavier weights ended up on either side of the bed. He felt England’s protective arm wrap around him and he could smell France’s perfumed hair on the other side of Canada. He pulled Canada closer, happiness growing in his chest.


	7. Growth and Departure

_Summer 1616_

_Growth_

__ “Ah, America.” England looked up from the book in his lap as he nursed a cup of summer ale in his hands. It was early in the morning and he had decided that quiet time sounded extremely pleasant. He had finally gotten France out of his hair and out of his bed, and peace in his colony had been restored. He ignored the letters that piled on his writing table telling of news of his lands. Wales dutifully sent them on each ship that left for the New World, even though England had not replied for a year. He had managed to talk France into leaving Canada in his keeping. Temporarily, he promised aloud and not meaning a word. He suggested the alternative would mean that the two young colonies would otherwise be alone in the vastness of the continent.

The boys were out in the garden behind the house, ducking amongst the corn stalks and other vegetables that the local peoples grew. England was still not sure about the food, but it had not caused any undue damage to the colonists, therefore he would allow it. With the addition of Canada, America had a playmate that could keep him busy. Although America still protested when he would call them inside for quiet, Canada would dutifully turn in for a nap and America would eventually drift off. Sometimes when he would kiss them on their foreheads and tuck the blankets all around them he wondered about himself when he was their size. Were he and his brothers ever at enough peace to let their connections lull them to sleep together? It would be impossible to ask.

The knocking of the wooden latch and the pounding of small feet on the dirt floor announced that the boys had finished their game outdoors. He looked up and saw the two standing in the doorway, boys now, not babies. America rocked back and forth on his heels and Canada stood behind him, frowning.

He set his cup carefully down on the table as if too quick an action would cause an uproar in the little house. It would not be the first time the two boys had upset one or the other and with the look on Canada’s face, England could tell which was the loser of whatever competition or argument had sprung up between them. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

“Look, England!” America said. He grabbed Canada by the arm before the other could dart away and he dragged them both before England’s chair. Canada stared at his shoes as America turned him so they could stand back to back. England gasped.

America was at least a head taller than the other colony.

“See! I’m so much bigger than he is!”

Canada turned to him, his face so serious for the five year old human face it reflected. “Is something wrong with me?” Tears welled up in his violet eyes. England sat his book down on the table and gestured to the boy and Canada climbed up into his lap and wrapped his arms around him.

“No, there is nothing wrong with you.”

“Then there is something wrong with me?” said America, his face pulling into a frown that matched his brother’s.

“No, no.” England shifted Canada to one side, so America could climb up into the chair as well. The two were getting a little too big for this, England though as the combined weight of the two colonies made the chair wobble.

“Why would he grow faster than me?”

England often wondered the same thing when he was their size when Scotland, Ireland, or sometimes even Wales would surpass him. He would work hard to catch up, but it took centuries. With these two their growth was measured in decades, were all the new nations going to grow this quickly?

“America had permanent settlement Canada, France has not brought you many of his people yet.”

“Why not?”

“Our home across the ocean is much different from yours. It takes a lot of courage to settle new lands.” England bit his tongue to cut off an insult to France. Canada buried his face in England’s shirt.

“So my people are braver?” America asked. England was not really sure how to answer.

“It must be la vérité.” Canada said quietly, he looked up England as though he was waiting for him to refute his words.

England sighed, “Brothers can be different. It does not necessarily make one better than the other.” He felt a twinge of emotion when the words came out of his mouth. It was if all of his own brothers across the Atlantic had heard him and were scoffing. He shook off the feeling, although he absolved himself to stop ignoring Wales.

America climbed off his lap and pulled at Canada’s arm. “Let’s go play, if you can’t reach where I can I’ll help you.”

The boys were out the door before England could tell America he really should stop climbing trees.

~*~

_Winter 1617_

_Magic_

The firelight was warm as the little family sat around it, the snow settling around the settlement and sending everyone indoors to wait it out. America had settled down to a nap near the fireplace, dragging one of his more ragged blankets with him. Canada was still awake, sitting across from England at the table, playing quietly with a toy that America usually monopolized.

It was quiet, and just as England imagined a family gathering should be. His eyes grew heavier and he found it difficult to focus on the text in the flickering light. His gaze glanced over towards Canada who was looking up at him curiously.

No, not at him, at a spot over his shoulder. England turned and nearly startled at the closeness of the fairy. The little creature drifted directly next to his face, looking curiously back at the young nation. “Can he see me?” the fairy asked England.

Before England could answer, Canada nodded. The fairy giggled and drifted over to the boy. Canada stared at it wide-eyed. England watched for a moment, too surprised to say anything at first. However, when Canada looked as though he might duck under the table to hide, England stood up.

“It is all right, Canada. Miss Fairy won’t hurt you.” Canada blinked at him for a moment and then turned to the fairy and held out a hand. The fairy shook it and then drifted away. It returned a moment later with a whole group of magical creatures that swirled around the boy. “Hey, you lot, give the boy some room to breathe.” He moved over and sat down next to Canada, shooing some of the fairies out of the way.

“What are they?” Canada asked, his voice as soft as ever.

“Magical creatures.”

“But isn’t magic bad?”

“No, magic is just very old and hard for humans to understand.”

Canada was silent as he considered this. He looked down at the toys on the table, a sprite curiously peered at him from behind them. Canada turned back to England, “Can everyone like us see them?”

England felt a swell of pride come into his chest, he pulled Canada into his lap feeling very paternal. He shook his head, “Only those of us who are very special.” Canada smiled at him and turned around to introduce himself to the fairy. The other creatures came out slowly, greeting the young nation. Soon, Canada had climbed off England’s lap to play with the creatures near the hearth. England sat down and watched them play, his back to the other sleeping nation in the room.

He did not notice the tugging on the back of his shirt for several moments until the yank became so insistent he nearly fell over. He turned, “I see you’ve woken up.” America stood behind him, rubbing a small fist across his features still heavy with sleep. America squinted at him and at Canada, still trying to wake up. England gave the boy another moment to wake up, America was never quick first thing upon waking.

“Who are you talking to?” America asked, now peering around him at Canada. The other boy had stopped playing and was watching his brother. The fairies had ceased as well, some darting away, but most still sitting in the open.

Canada’s small voice came from the other side of the rug, “New friends.”

“Where? Did they go home?” America asked, turning to face England for confirmation.

“No, America they are right here with us, you just have to look.” England pointed at a fairy who had taken the form of a rabbit tinted green. America looked at the spot, tilting his head. He stared blankly at the spot, even when the fairy started jumping up and down. England’s heart sank.

“Can’t you see him?” Canada asked.

“See what?” America looked around, still obviously blind to the magic in the room, “You are scaring me…” Canada got up from his place and came to take his brother by the arm.

“They are nice America, you’ll see.” Canada took America’s hand and put it on the rabbit fairies head. America jumped back quickly.

“Ghosts!”

He was gone. Canada knocked over in the other’s haste to get away. England helped right the other boy and tried to get his own feelings under control. America could not see them? How was that possible? After making sure that Canada was not hurt he left the boy and went to look for the other. America was not in his usual hiding places in any cupboard or behind many of the doors. It was not until England checked the small room he had fixed into a bedroom some years ago. In the center of the straw mattress beneath the blankets was a small shape, shivering. He sat down on the edge of the bed, slowly, not wanting to startle the boy.

“America.” he said, reaching out a hand and placing it gently on the blanket. The bundle of blankets jumped slightly. He could hear sniffling. He patted the child gently. “You don’t have to be scared.”

There was quiet for a few minutes, England sighed and lifted the blankets carefully and sliding underneath them. He could make out America’s outline in the dark, his small body curled up in a ball.

“Are there monsters in the house? The people in the village say that monsters can get in if we leave the gates open or the doors. Did we leave them open too long?”

England bit his lip, trying to think of a way to quell the superstition. America had been doing so well, England had not stopped to think about the people’s thoughts and how they would affect such a young nation. He reached out and patted America’s hair. “No, you have been doing well. You don’t have to listen to any of that.”

“But I hear it in my head.”

“That happens sometimes.” he said, trying to sound reassuring. America wriggled closer under the blankets until he was able to bury his face in England’s chest. “You would not let any ghosts get me would you?”

“No, I’ll protect you.” he replied. He held the boy close for a while, until the shaking had stopped. England tried not to be too distressed himself. One little brother that could see magic, and another that could not. Could such a thing be changed?

~*~

_Spring 1619_

_Trouble Brewing_

America chased the flash of white feathers as the gulls took off from the shore, scattering before the little boy and disappearing out into the sky above the ocean. They always came back though and he could lie in wait for their game. He had come down to the water with England, but had quickly grown bored. Canada had been sniffly all winter and England thought it best for the other boy to stay inside. America would have thought the sun would warm him up, but he didn’t question getting to spend time alone with the older nation. He had grown leaps and bounds over the last year, his body changing into that of a six year old, no longer a toddling baby.

He wandered back over to where England frowned at the approaching longboat, the ship anchored farther out in the harbor.

“Who are we waiting for again?” asked America. England took a moment to come out of his thoughts.

“We are waiting for my older brother, America.” England’s brow creased.

“Which one?”

“His name is Ireland.” England frowned. America tilted his head and opened his mouth for another question, but the person in the boat caught his eye. America could tell immediately that it was another country like him, Canada, France and England. His hair was darker than England’s and it reminded him of the red on a robin. He hooked his fingers into England’s trouser leg and watched as the other nation approached the shore.

Ireland stepped off to the boat and walked across the shore towards England. The two did not speak for a minute. America looked in between the two of them. The silence broke when Ireland leaned down to look at him. He gave England a smile that America was not sure was friendly or not, then he looked closely at America.

“So this is the little lad that’s keeping you over here. Finally found a _fíorghrá, Sassanach_?” England picked America up so quickly, the young colony was disoriented for a moment. England’s eyes narrowed at the other nation.

“What are you doing here?” England asked.

“To take you back to your duty. If you insist on ruling me and my brothers--”

“They are my brothers, too.” Ireland raised an eyebrow and America could see England frowning.

“As I said, if you insist on ruling us you should do your duty. Your king is making a mess of things.”

“I do recall an uprising not even a few decades past. Scotland should not have let you come.”

“Considering that he’s busy trying to keep everything from falling apart--”

“You have some nerve!”

“Have you even been reading what we’ve been sending you, or are you enjoying your escape too much? There will be plenty of our people to join you soon enough to escape the madness of your king!”

“I have been reading them--” England’s arms tightened around America. It was too tight.

“England?” said America. The two older nations looked down at the boy. “You’re hurting me.” England’s grip loosened immediately and he set him down.

England looked at him, his expression cooler than America had ever seen it, even when France was obviously annoying him. “We should not speak like this in front of you. Go and play, be sure to come back for mid-day meal.”

America nodded, walking back towards the settlement. He paused for a moment and looked back at England and his brother. He frowned, they were yelling at each other in languages he didn’t understand. For the first time since he had met England he felt a little afraid of him.

The forest felt safer than the torrent of emotions occurring on the beach. America could not hear them anymore as the trees became thicker and the birds louder. He scurried after some of the animals newly emerging from their burrows on the warm spring day. He was busy making friends with a family of rabbits when he realized that the sky was growing dark.

It was dusk when he crept back into the settlement. He came around a corner and abruptly ran into someone’s legs. His momentum caused him to fall. He looked up at who he had run into and gasped. Ireland looked down at him and offered him a hand. America looked at him uncertainly.

“I’m not going to bite, lad.” he said. America took his hand and, once on his feet, brushed himself off.

“What?” he said, when he realized Ireland was appraising him.

“I just don’t see much of England in you.”

“He found me.”

“Is that right?”

“He’s my brother, although he doesn’t like me to call him that.” said America, placing his hands on his hips and trying to look important. Ireland laughed.

“You should mind that, England does not get along well with anyone he calls ‘brother’.” The older nation was silent for a moment, America could tell he was considering something. Whatever it was, though, Ireland did not say. “C’mon boy, we should head back before England starts burning something.”

America followed, unsure what it was all about.

~*~

_Midsummer 1619_

_A Present Before I Go..._

The night was unusually dark and England couldn't sleep. He lay on his side and stared at the little bit of light that crept in despite the waning sliver of the moon. America breathed quietly next to him, his face buried in England’s night shirt and hands wrapped up in the cloth. He shifted slightly so he could rest his hand on the boy's head. A few night birds cooed outside the window, resuming their activities in the coming spring.

A sense of dread settled on him over the winter. Unease had caught him in unguarded moments. He had sensed he could not stay away from home any longer, and the arrival of his brother who refused to leave until he came along proved his feeling true.

Something was about to go terribly wrong on his lands.

He had to go. The tides would be right tomorrow. America did not know, he had not been able to get the courage to tell him.

You’re being an idiot about this Sassanach. The boy will be fine.

England knew that Ireland was right, but he did not want to admit it. America would have to be fine, he could not risk having him taken across the sea. He did not know what kind of fire he was walking into when he returned home. He had sent Canada back to his own villages and colonies a few days ago, he had considered keeping him with America, but figured the fledgling colonies would be better off separate for now. America was outpacing Canada rapidly, and he didn’t want them to start comparing themselves again.

“England, you’re holding me too tight.” said America, squirming in the darkness. He was getting big, England thought. By the time he came back, who knows how much America will have grown.

England released him and America pulled back slightly. England could feel the space between them now, the warmth that was the younger nation seeming far away.

“I’m sorry, America.” America sat up, his boyish face serious. He poked England in the forehead and then rubbed between his eyebrows. England realized he must be frowning. “Is your thinking hurting your head?”

England could not help but smile at the awkwardness of the question. “No,” he paused for a moment wondering what he could say, “My heart is just hurting a bit, little one.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” America looked at him, as though he could identify the hurt and heal it immediately. England’s heart throbbed at the concern on the young face. “You’ve been packing. Are you going away again?”

“Yes, I am leaving tomorrow, America.”

“But you’ll be back soon won’t you?”

“I cannot tell you when I will be back. There are troubles at my home, and…” America interrupted him by jumping on him quickly and wrapping his arms around his neck. England’s arms went instinctively around the boy to hold him.

“No!”

“America…”

“No! You can’t leave!” The little body tensed with distress.

“I do not want to leave you. But I have to go.”

America pushed himself up, sitting on England’s chest, “Then I will go with you.” He looked so determined England almost wished such a thing were possible. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t take America into any of the dangers he was about to walk into. England reached up and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“You cannot come with me, love.” he said, before America could protest further, “It’s important for you to stay here and help the land grow. You’ll grow big and strong and I will be so proud of you when I come back. Sometimes we all have to be alone, but it gives us time to grow and better ourselves.” America frowned. England sighed and pulled the boy into a hug. America wrapped his arms around him.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I will miss you too.”

He got up before dawn, knowing that the ship would want to leave as soon as possible. America had not let get go of him, even in sleep. It took some maneuvering to get out of his grip, but he managed it without waking the boy up. He considered letting him sleep, let him wake up after he was already gone. After all, the tears had been had during the night.

The silence of the morning unnerved him. It was as if the land itself was as tense and upset as the little boy still curled up in the blankets. He packed away the last of his things, leaving a few things here and there to comfort America.

“We need to get a move on.” said Ireland, waiting impatiently by the door, “The ship lads will have everything loaded by now.”

“Just give me a moment.” England answered impatiently to the other nation. He paused near the hearth in the kitchen, considering where he could leave the box with a gift for America to think of him. Dawn light began to creep through the small windows. The table where so many new memories had been made with his new family stretched out, the light stretching along the wooden grain.

“You were going to leave without saying goodbye?” England turned, the box still in his hand. America was standing tousle-haired in his shift, the normally smiling mouth turned down.

“I thought it would be best.”

“Stupid England.” America huffed. He walked around the table and wrapped his arms around England’s middle. He didn’t let go.

“America, I have to leave. Look now, you’re becoming a big lad and you can’t act this way.” He sat the box down and took the boys hands. He leaned down so he could look America in the face. “Before I go, why don’t you see what I’ve made for you.” He directed America’s attention to the box on the table. America watched him warily, as though he were afraid England would disappear if he turned his back on him. He reached for the edges of the box and lifted the lid. A sound of amazement came out of his mouth.

The small wooden soldiers had taken the better part of the last few weeks since Ireland had arrived. America held them close to his face to examine them. England could not help but feel a little bit of pride at the admiration the pieces received.

“Why do they have red coats?” America asked, turning to him a curious expression on his face.

“I thought it would be a good color for an army.” England replied.

“Will I get to wear one someday?”

“I suppose you will. But not yet.” He turned his head, he could hear Ireland shouting at him from in front of the house.

England pulled America close for one last time and left without another word.

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	8. A long spread of time

_1619_

“Ferdinand II.” the sigh throbbed dully about the towering bookshelves and wheezing fireplace in the hearth.

“Pardon?”

“Oh excuse me.” England apologized looking up and across the long wooden table that stood smack dab in the middle of the study. Down the table from the nation sat James I/6.

“I said Ferdinand II,” Shaking the document dully as he continued on as if a nasty taste had settled on his tongue, “has officially taken the position of the Holy Roman Emperor and shall hereby be known as the King of Bohemia and Hungary, Archduke of Austria” England couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he dropped the document to the table.

“Well that is a tad on the pompous side of him isn’t it?”

James snorted. The pair fell silent briefly as the bleating of sheep floated in through the window.

“As if you can say much James.” Getting to his feet England gestured dramatically, his voice taking on a tone most would consider blanketed mockery, “Oh, James I of England and Ireland and James the VI of Scotland!”

“Honestly! I didn’t choose that title it was shoved upon me Arthur and you know that!” James exclaimed with slight mortification, only relaxing when he saw the glint of humor in the nation’s eye. The nation, indeed. Personally James preferred to call him Arthur. It came about one day when James was complaining about the long title and Arthur had argued back that they both had the same burden to bear now. The two males had decided that day that England would just call him James and that they both took a liking to the name Arthur. This meant the two could converse in semi-public with the looks from those that did not know who England really was. An inside joke between the two.

“Times are changing quickly, are they not?” asked England. It was the King’s turn to sigh as he opened up a log book.

“One moment we are here farming on strips and then everything is shoved into plots and there are sheep everywhere. Wool is our main export now.” James replied

“Aye.” England agreed settling back into his own stiff backed chair. He tugged at his collar absentmindedly as the heat of the room became uncomfortable. Here in London, he could hear the bustle of people and the bleating of sheep. Yet what he longed for was the crashing of the waves and the cries of the seagull. A ship’s sweet groan as she was rocked about in the fingers of the ocean, spraying her with salt and wet. Although it was custom, for those in mourning to wear black, it was not the most comfortable.

Glancing back at James, he noted the man flipping absentmindedly through the logs, eyes glazed over in thought. He was probably thinking about Anne again. England sighed silently, his heart aching for his King. Earlier that March, Anne of Denmark, James' wife had passed away. James had been distraught, as well as their two surviving children, Charles and Elizabeth.

There was the sudden creek of the door opening. Speak of the devil. Leaning backwards, his chin found its way to the palm of his hand as his mind once again traveled across the the sea. He missed America, he missed his little brother. Staring out the window he kicked his legs aimlessly.

"I take it that we are done for the day." James’ voice broke through his daydreaming. The English nation looked up in a mesh of embarrassment and surprise.

"Forgive me, my mind seems to have wandered."

"A rather common occurrence since your return." James commented with a smirk of amusement. "If I didn't know you better I would have said that you were heartsick for a woman."

"Honestly!" Flushing, England scowled at the human.

"Ah come now! Don't get hot, I know it’s not a woman. Your are missing that small child are you not?" James propped his chin upon his arm as he folded them upon the table.

“Of course I am. Do you not miss the children in your life” England questioned back with a raised brow. “By the way, when do we get to see little Elizabeth once again.” he sighed, running his fingers along the edge of the table, “It’s been six years since her marriage”

“Perhaps if her husband needs an entreaty of some sort." James shrugged, the heavy weight of too many nights over paper beginning to display its toll.

"James, I suggest that you turn in for the night." Arthur frowned as he got to his feet. “It would be quite unseemly if you were to collapse from exhaustion. Do turn in early." He stepped to his rulers side and gave him a squeeze on the shoulder in farewell.

"Arthur, where are you off to?"

"I had an agreement with young Charles. I told him that I would go riding with him this afternoon." the nation responded, looking over his shoulder, "I have not spent much time with the lad since my return."

"Ah I see. Well do have a jolly time."

"Of course, James. And you head for a rest, if you would." Arthur looked at the human man he had come to know as friend. Pushing the door open he stopped for a split second as he found himself face to face with bright eyes of green and bloody red hair.

“Alistair.” Arthur grunted allowing the door shut behind him. The older male stared down at him with a look of distaste.

“Oy, snot nosed brat.” Scotland replied.

“Really! Honestly I-” Arthur fumed angering flaming alive in his chest, it sputtered out as Scotland waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, eyes of blue training on the door.

“How is he?” The question hung in the air above them, heavy with implication.

“Tired.” The tension that had risen to to his shoulders in a defensive nature crawled away in haste as he too looked towards the door. “He was thinking of Anne earlier...and of the work over in the colonies...I told him that he should retire early for the evening.” He turned to look at the older nation “Perhaps persuasion from more than one front would be beneficial.” Arthur suggested with a sigh.

The tension, lined with hostility hung between them, though littered with holes as concern for the human man in the other room brought about a sense of unity. A balm for the anger between them.

“Of course, Arthur.” Alistair turned to look at him briefly, a hand squeezing at his shoulder. “If there is one thing we can agree on...it is that James needs to be taken care of right now.”

With that he opened the door and moved into the room, tone changing from serious to rambunctious within the beat of sparrows heart.

~*~

_1630_

“That was 11 years ago.” England sighed looking up the brush that slid through mahogany hair. Henrietta turned to look at him with a soft smile upon her face.

“Eleven years ago, you say?” she turned back around, hands caressing the bulge of her stomach, heavy with child.

“Yes, it was six years later that Charles took the throne.” England resumed brushing the woman's hair. Henrietta Maria of France, the Queen of England through marriage of Charles the First. The relationship between the King and his Queen hadn't been easy until two years ago, when Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, passed away. England felt his lip curl in distaste at the thought of the man. At first the Duke had seemed alright at first, but when he became a wedge of anger and strife between his two beloved monarchs. Guilt and shame was something that he should have been feeling upon thoughts of the Duke’s death, assassination. He could not will himself to feel anything but anger mixed with a heavy dose of triumph at the bastard’s death. He would be damned, however, if the connection between the assassination and him was ever made. It was not like he himself held the murderous blade. And no one had proof that it was England himself that greased the palm of John Felton, a man who needed no more motivation against VIlliers but money to hasten his actions. That name brought a tinge of guilt to him, the poor sod never should have attempted the feat if he hadn't planned his escape. He was hung that November. Looking back at Henrietta any doubts or concerns vanished as he watched the Queen hold her belly gently as she hummed.

“Arthur?” She said.

“Hmm?”

“What do you think? A boy or a girl?” She tilted her head back to look at him, eyes wide with questioning, “Charles says that the...nations” her nose wrinkled at the word before she continued “are usually rather good at guessing the sex of a child.”

“Ah..yes.” His hand stilled as he smiled down at the woman. Leaning forward his hand joined hers upon her belly. He couldn't help the smile that lightened his features from his previous thoughts. “I have told you my thoughts before though.” He laughed.

“Oh please?! Do tell me, Arthur!”

“All right, All right.” He laughed, smiling “I am almost certain that the babe is going to be a boy.” He pressed his cheek along her hairline briefly before pulling back and resuming his previous task.

“I do so hope that you are correct.” the Queen murmured. The knock on the door was brief and the wait for it to open was even quicker.

“Ah Francis.” The door opened up, revealing the French nation. His clothes were rich and England couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of jealousy. Not that he would copy the Frog in anything… France approached the Queen and knelt down, taking her hand in his and kissing her fingers. She smiled at him and he perched on the edge of the dressing table by her side.

“As lovely as ever, _mon belle_ Henrietta.” He gave England a sideways glance, “Made even more beautiful in present company.”

“What do you need Francis?” The question was followed by a noise that came from deep in the Englishman's throat. One of the few habits Arthur seemed to have picked up from his new house guest. It seemed as if having Alistair around was effecting more than just England’s economy.

France raised an eyebrow at England’s humpf of disapproval, but the incredulous look soon slid into a smile at Henrietta. “Must I have an excuse to visit a princess of mine?” he replied, “I have to make sure she is taken care of in this savage land after all.”

“Savage! You bloody f-” insults dried up immediately as a disapproving glare was turned his way. “Forgive me Henrietta” he murmured ears coloring. Despite the embarrassment, a smug smirk crossed his features as the woman’s glare turned to the blond country lounging upon the furniture.

“Francis, do remove yourself from my dressing table and sit somewhere proper. And please do stop with the arguing, the both of you! Honestly.” the Queen sighed as she looked between the two males.

“Whatever you wish, Princess.” France replied, “And I will try to be more civil.” Before finding a chair he leaned over to kiss her cheek. His blue eyes turned on the English nation and before England had a chance to react he had pulled England close and planted a kiss on his cheek as well. Before England could catch hold of him, France had sauntered to the other side of the room to pick up one of the delicate chairs to come and place near the Queen.

“Queen.” England bit out glaring at France “She is the Queen of England Francis get it right”

“Arthur!” Henrietta smacked at the nations knee, “Did I not say that, that was enough?!”

England could see France smirking at him from the other side of Henrietta’s person. He tried to keep his face still. A knock came on the door, soon admitting a servant. Charles wanted his Queen. Henrietta got up quickly from her chair, taking one last glance in the gilded mirror. She turned to the two nations.

“Do not fight.” She looked at them pleadingly and pulled each close for kiss on the cheek. Soon she floated out of the room leaving behind only the smell of her perfume. France leaned back in his chair. England was looking after her. France waited patiently, watching him.

“The pregnancy is becoming more difficult” he turned to look at the french nation, mouth drawing into a thin line “She took a fall the other day after she nearly fainted.”

France’s eyes widened at the news. “You should watch out for her more carefully. You should be more grateful for my sharing my monarchs. They give you legitimacy after all.”

“Would you sod off!” England snapped jumping to his feet “Stop being so bloody self centered! This isn’t about us at all damn it! This is about Henrietta! Enough with trying to goad me you arse! Grow the fuck up will you!” the stream of profanities rolled off of the English nation's tongue without falter, anger being the fuel. Eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep, mouth lined with worry “If you are going to be such a prat than get the bloody fuck out of my kingdom!”

France watched him, letting him run through his tirade. “Good. You have grown up a bit.” he stood up and walked closer to England. “I did not come just to check on Henrietta.”

“Stay the bloody hell away from me FROG” England sniffed stepping back “who knows what you are carrying”

France laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for such frivolity this time.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a small round frame. “I actually came to bring you this.” England almost didn’t reach for it, but curiosity got the better of him. He pulled it from France’s fingers and looked down at the portrait of a face he had missed so deeply.

“You have seen them?” he asked of the other nation. France smiled now.

“They are growing quite well, although America just seems to attract trouble!” he paused for a moment, then continued, “You must be a horrible influence!”

“You bloody bastard!” England snapped, however the retort lacked passion behind it, eyes trained on the portrait. “I have been gone for quiet awhile...I have been speaking with James about making a return trip but...we just do not have the time” he muttered.

“I had snuck away myself. I smell more war on the horizon for me. Perhaps you and I will be allies again.”

Another grunt was his response “If God himself has a sense of humor than we will be”

“Must be.” France brushed past him, heading for the door out of the room. He paused, “You know, my dear _Angleterre_ I could help you sleep.” He gave a suggestive, although teasing grin.

“Bloody Hell!” A look of horror crossed over the Englishman’s face as he stepped back, a flush rising up his cheeks.

France gave a theatrical sigh. "Perhaps I should just go and find your charming elder brother..." Within seconds England had managed to secure a pillow and chuck it after the Frenchman with as much force as he could muster. He missed, although with satisfaction he saw that he had dislodged some dust from a tapestry that fell on the sleeves of France's jacket. France paused in the doorway, frowning as he dusted it. He glanced up and England tried to turn his back before the other could see his still flushed face. "You know where to find me, Arthur."

As Francis closed the door amidst laughter a more subtle response was uttered, “You know where my chambers are too, Frog.”

~*~

_August 1665_

“Do take care Henrietta.” England pleaded. His pace was slow, walking arm in arm with Queen who coughed violently into her handkerchief.

“Bronchitis it seems.” Henrietta coughed “Pardon me dear, but this bloody damp English weather never did suit my lungs.” Another round of coughing overtook her. Moments later when it seems as if the fits would give her a moment's relief she withdrew the cloth and tucked it into her pocket. She looked about the green that surrounded them, her eyes turning towards an inevitable stormy sky. “Its always raining here, always cloudy. Do you know how much I wish to see the sun more than one day out of the year?”

“I do wish that you didn’t have to leave, Mother.” another male voice piped up from the Queen Consort’s other side. Charles II had his mother's right arm and was looking on with concern that matched the personified nation's expression.

“Are we ready to depart?” another voice interrupted the trio. At the end of walk stood a carriage, France standing tall beside it. He was going to personally escort Henrietta back to his lands. The two nations exchanged a look, both heavy with implication and challenge.

“I will see you once again Charles, do take care.” the Queen Mother, in this moment, was a mother alone. She hugged the King, for this moment only a child, tightly to her.

“Of course I will mother.” he murmured hugging her back tightly.

“Make sure he eats properly and sleeps.” Henrietta pulled back to stare England down. “Promise me, Arthur?”

“I promise you, my Queen.” he murmured. She may not be the Queen of the country anymore but like every monarch ever in his country she held a special place in his heart. He returned the hug that was given to him.

“And Charles I expect you to do the same in regards of Arthur”

  
“My lady.” France’s voice came once again “We need to depart soon.”

“Of course, of course, Francis, don’t get your knickers into a knot.” She waved her hand absentmindedly. Pulling back she looked at the two boys standing next to each other. “All right you two, if I hear that you have been misbehaving I have no problem traveling back to strap your behinds.” she threatened.

She smiled when two fervent nods were her response and rode away to the ship that would carry her across the Channel.

~*~

It was the waving of a gloved hand from the carriage that he could remember. That had been four years ago, now being the year 1669. England turned away from the giant portrait of Charles I and his wife Henrietta Maria of France.

“Arthur!” The summon was loud and annoyed. It seems as if Charles had exited Parliament's chambers. Time for a ranting spell.

“Coming, Charles.” he sighed. 

~*~

_1714_

_Late Spring_

_At Sea_

“A lot on your mind sir?”

“Aye." England straightened, pushing himself up from the railing of the ship. “A great deal to think about lad” his gaze found himself looking down at a boy that could be no more than fourteen years of age, gangly with growth. The sting of the salty ocean had been ignored until he had been pulled from the depths of his mind's personal waters.

“Can I fetch anything for you sir?”

“Ah, nothing. I am doing quite fine.” He tousled the boy's brown hair. “Now run off and find your, mam.”

He pushed the boy along. Watching the boy toddle off and run into a man that had to be his grandfather he smiled turning back to the ocean. The boat moaned and murmured as it rocked inside of the waves, a forever pull and tug relationship between the pair. There had been a lot going on even in the fourteen years of life that boy had been alive, especially his grandfather. Roughly sixty years of that man's life…..The Great Fire of London, The Glorious Revolution, the 1701 Act of Settlement… the list could go on and on. It was seven years ago to this day. He blinked rapidly in surprise. It as seven years ago on May 1, 1707 that he had officially become he Kingdom of Great Britain...His mind spun over the seven years that had transpired since then, the most recent being the death of Anne. Heaving a sigh he leaned back against the railing a ache once again in his chest. But he searched for happier thoughts, the picture of the small child that he hoped he would see soon.


	9. Changes and Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England finally returns to North America to find that while some things haven't changed, his little colony is growing up faster than he ever expected.

_January 1716_

_The frontier between New France and British America_

The snow dropped heavy and wet with a plop. America's eyes darted towards the shrubs where the sound had come. He stepped through the knee deep snow. His body had recently stretched again, shooting him up another few inches in height. The last glimpse he'd gotten of himself in a reflective surface showed that his face was starting to match the older boys in the towns. If he was a human he would likely be 13 or 14 years old. His adolescent limbs cut through the snow as he walked through the clearing in the forest.

The snowball hit the back of his head and soaked into the wool of his coat. He turned around, Canada grinned at him from the other side of the meadow. "How do you do that?" America asked.

Canada shrugged and then bent down to gather another fist full of snow. America wasn't going to give him the chance. He darted across the snow, stepping quickly through the trenches he'd made with his footsteps. Canada looked up just as America slammed into him, tackling him into the nearby snowbank. They laughed as they tumbled, trying to bury each other in the snow drifts that collected near the trees.

Neither of them would call it hiding, but they had needed an escape. The people on the continent they shared had been in turmoil with one another. France and England had sent letters telling the two that they should not play together until the issue was resolved, but neither had really understood. They only had each other as far as they knew, so they had left the letters folded in the writing desks in the houses that had been set up for them and left. They had hoped that the older brothers they had not seen for many years would perhaps return in the spring and help them with all the troubles.

While they played though, the problems faded away and they could be the children their bodies reflected, although far more self sufficient than any human child would be. America just managed to get the better of Canada in one of the snow drifts, the slightly smaller boy making muffled noises as America sat on his back.

"What?" he asked, moving so that Canada could lift his head.

"It will be dark soon." he said. America looked up at the sky and the fingers of sunlight were starting to lose to the stars and a large snow cloud that threatened to cover their tracks in the night.

"Yeah, we should head back." America said, climbing off the other boy and helping him out of the snow. They fetched their snowshoes and hurried home, still trying to get each other with covert snowballs. Their giggles echoed off the bare trunks of the trees as they made their way to the little cabin they had built during the summer. They made it to the space and stopped. A horse was tied up inside the lean-to that protected the firewood from the winter drifts. Smoke drifted from the stone chimney that leaned slightly to one side, they had not quite mastered stone masonry when it was built.

" _Qui est-ce_?" said Canada.

"I don't who it is, but I do know one way to find out." America replied. Canada looked at him and nodded. They crept forward together through the snow, stepping lightly so they wouldn't sound any different than a deer creeping closer to the house. They came around the side, there was a spot of loose chinking between the logs they had been meaning to fix. America reached up with his gloved fingers and tugged at the rag they had been using to block the cold from seeping inside.

He pressed his eye to the hole, Canada close by. They could not both look at once, but America caught sight of a person sitting in one of the wooden chairs by the fire. His hair was unbound and he was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. America moved aside and let Canada look.

"Is that who I think it is?" he whispered.

"Monsieur France... He looks sad..." Canada said, nodding at America's questioning look, "We should go inside." After stuffing the rag back into the hole, they walked around to the other side of the cabin, making noise this time, stamping snow off their boots and brushing it off their coats under the eaves of the roof. They pushed open the door and feigned surprise. France had collected himself and did not portray any of the sadness the boys had seen when he did not know they were looking. The calm only lasted a minute as his eyes widened and he took them both in. America shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with the examination, after all, England had told him he should not be speaking to France. Should he go somewhere else?

Before he could make a decision of whether he should leave Canada with his elder brother, France spoke. "You boys have gotten so tall!" He stood up from the chair and walked closer. Canada immediately embraced him, but America hung back.

" _Amerique_ , what is wrong?"

"England said that I should not talk to you."

France stretched out an arm so that he could welcome the other North American into the embrace, "It is all right now, we are not fighting here anymore."

"But your people hurt mine." said America, "You made Canada's people hurt mine." Canada looked at him, America looked back, not wanting to back down. England would not want him too.

France sighed and dropped his arm. "As much as we would like to shield you, that is not the way the world works. I am not here as a combatant, America. You will someday understand that although our people may fight, we do not have to. I'm here as a brother, I wanted to see you and Canada." Canada's arms tightened around France's waist.

"I don't understand." America replied.

Canada's voice was soft, "We did not fight even though we were supposed to, maybe that is what Monsieur France means?" France patted Canada softly on the head.

“ _Oui, mon bon fils._ ” Canada smiled, flushing slightly from the praise. America still was not sure, but he settled himself on the other chair listening to Canada and France speak to each other. He knew some of the words, but he did not join in. He could never get his French to sound quite right.

America sat for a while, but got hungry and headed towards their small cupboard to find something to eat as France and Canada continued to talk.

“ _Pourquoi êtes-vous venu ici_?” he heard Canada ask. America wanted to know why France had come too, he had not gotten to see England for nearly a century, his letters always spoke of how busy he was. France must certainly be just as busy, America thought. France was silent for a few minutes. America turned and watched him.

The chair was turned away from where he stood, so he could only see the back of France’s head. Canada had pulled up a stool and sat close beside him. His face was turned up to his elder brother in concern.

“ _Mon roi est mort._ ” France replied, his voice quiet.

“Who is dead?” America asked, blurting it out from curiosity. France turned slightly in the chair to give him a sidelong look.

“My king, America. He had been my king for 72 years, that is a long time for a human.” He took a deep breath and continued, “When we lose a human we care about, we often want to see our own families. We do not leave each other nearly so often.” France smiled and ruffled Canada’s hair.

“England never gets sad when his kings die. They die all the time.” He ticked them off on his fingers. Since the last time he had seen him, England’s ruler had changed seven or eight times, America wasn’t entirely sure. He just knew that the royal colonies got new pictures of the person every time it changed.

France gave him a stern look. “You do not know him as well as I do. He would scold you if he heard you say such a thing.” America turned away. He could feel his ears burning, youthful pride pricked from the reprimand, as he finished making his food.

“He would come here if he was sad, wouldn’t he?” he asked, turning back to France. Part of him feared that France would laugh or tell him that England did not want to see him the way France had wanted to see Canada.

France’s expression softened, “He does love you. I have not seen him for some time, but he will make his way to you when he is able.”

America stared down at his food, jealousy tightening his throat. He wished England were here instead of France so that he could sit beside him and listen to stories. He brooded in one of the dark corners of the room while he finished eating. Canada was trying to distract France from his sadness with a story about the bear that had stolen all of the fish from their lines two weeks ago. It had been quite a negotiation to get their fish hooks back. America agreed that it was a funny story, but he was bothered by what France had said.

It was not until later, when they were laying down to sleep that America thought of something. His back was pressed up to Canada’s in the narrow bed as they made room for France. He faced the hearth and could hear the other two nations breathing softly.

“I won’t be sad.” he said to the dark room. He jumped a little as France reached across Canada and put a hand on his head.

“You’ll understand when you are older.”

 _I want to understand now. And I want England._ America thought to himself as he fell asleep.

~*~

_August 1719_

_Off the coast of Florida_

“ _Sacrebleu_! So it was true! I thought Spain was telling tales when I last asked him to surrender.”

England glared at France’s surprised visage in the looking glass of the cabin. He had a pair of barber’s scissors in his hand and was half-tempted to grab the other man and stab him with it. His eyes shifted back to his own reflection. The ocean had tanned his skin from the years he’d been on it. A scar was fading on his cheek from a cutlass belonging to a crew member of an unlucky prize. He was still wet from having his ship sank beneath his feet courtesy of French cannonballs to the hull. It was instinct that had made him grab for a floating board and then accept being pulled aboard the new ship.

He’d only been in the brig a moment before the captain recognized him. England could not recall the man himself, but it must have been from what felt like another lifetime. The ship’s captain was probably in his forties, so maybe when the man had been a boy? He’d accepted the hospitality before ever realizing that the French nation was also on board.

He’d needed it, putting his ship in the fleet of Queen Anne’s Revenge, led by the now notorious - and executed - pirate Blackbeard, pillaging ships from the Caribbean to the coasts of North America. He had looked at the coastline hundreds of times, desire to see America clenching his stomach, but not being able to set foot on shore. He nearly fancied himself as cursed as Davy Jones, unable to set foot on land more than once a decade to see those he loved. He told himself that he did not want to set a bad example for the boy, but the truth was he could not face him with any of the anger over the last several decades chewing at him like a dog with a bone.

He trimmed at the hair that had become bleached by salt and sun, trying to make his appearance more respectable. He had not expected that the vessel he’d attacked for plunder would be one of France’s naval ships in disguise, looking for unsuspecting Spaniards. He had settled his deep red captain’s coat over the back of a high backed chair and carefully unwound beads and shining coins from his hair as he grudgingly accepted his return to civilization. He was caught like a rat in a trap.

France closed the door behind him, hiding them from view of the curious men on the ship deck. The wood creaked and the furniture shifted slightly as a wave hit the side of the ship, now anchored off the coast of Spanish Florida. England would not have sailed into the Gulf at all, but in a bout of drink and an ironic wind he’d had half a mind to attack New Orleans, rum dream that it was. He did not want to consider that part of him wanted to get caught by one of the other nations. Piracy had become a love affair that dragged him deeper and deeper, as intoxicating as the drink they carried in barrels below deck.

“Give me those before you cut your throat.” France said, grasping England’s hand and wresting the silver scissors from him. “Sit.” He pulled a stool from under a nearby cabinet and pushed England down upon it. England could not help but remember a moment centuries ago when they had sat just like this, France taming his hair and forcing him back to a reasonable state.

“What has been going on?”

“We are allies against Spain.”

“Good to know I was helping the cause everytime I sank one of that bastard’s ships. Just us, or are there others?”

“Of course there are others. Prussia sends his regards.”

England made a disbelieving noise deep in his throat, “I’m sure he does.”

“He said, and I quote, that island brat talks big but he needs to get back here and prove it.” England snorted at France’s impersonation of the German.

“You can tell him I owe him a punch in the nose.”

“That is a fight where you would end up bleeding too, mon ami.” England had to grudgingly admit that France was right. He took a moment to consider whether it would still be worth it. He savored an imagined image of the other nation’s surprise that he would dare to do such a thing. They sat in companionable silence as France finished. “I would offer you something else to wear, but I get the feeling that a French uniform would only be ruined for you wearing it.”

England gave him a dirty look. “My clothes will be fine until you can put me on a British vessel. Especially since you so abruptly sunk my ship.”

“I could do you one better.”

“I’m really not in the mood.”

France waved a hand dismissively, “There is plenty of time for that when you don’t stink like brine. I was thinking I could drop you off at a port in your colony. You could see little _Amerique_.”

England felt the flash of want that had buried itself in his breast so many times when he was within landing distance of that shore. It echoed the excitement he’d felt when he first set foot ashore in the New World over a century ago. He picked at a loose thread on his shirt sleeve.

“You do not want to see him?” France asked, taking England's hesitation as a refusal.

England stood up from his seat and paced. He finally settled himself against the bulkhead. The captain must have fancied images from home, a painting of French farmland clung steadfast to the wall stained at the corners from water. England turned and pressed his shoulder blade into the corner of the painting’s frame. The pain kept him grounded. England eyed the other nation from across the captain’s room. “In order to improve the mind, we ought less to learn, than to contemplate.” It was a diversion and the twitch of France’s lips betrayed that he realized it too.

“I did not think you liked Descartes.” France crossed his arms and watched him, “Are you saying that you are afraid to learn the truth of what has been going on for him the last 100 years and want to keep your image of him?”

“No.” England replied immediately, “Maybe, God, I don’t know. I’ve been drowning Francis.”

“You certainly look it.”

“You know what I mean.”

France sighed. “I do.” He walked across the room. England noted that the dark blue navy coat suited him well, although France never seemed to be as easy on the ocean as England himself. He followed England across the room and leaned beside him, England could feel the warmth of him through his wet clothes. “I went to see them a few years ago. I was afraid too, I had this vision of Canada as he was before. Small and innocent, oui?”

England nodded. He had held to the image of America as he had last seen him, a child, begging him not to leave.

“They have grown so much. Almost as tall as we are. I could not believe it. I expected them to stay small for centuries, like you did.”

England did not say anything, fixing his eyes on the blurred sea through the salt pocked glass across the room.

France continued, “But when I held Canada in my arms I did not care. He may be taller now, but he’s still the boy I know. America will be the same.”

England was silent for a few minutes. He heard France take a breath to speak again but he stopped him by raising a hand. “I don’t need you to tell me that. Take me there.”

~*~

September 1720

Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony

America rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited near the docks. A fishing ship had brought the letter yesterday. It told him to expect a frigate at the harbor. It was signed by England and America’s heart had leapt into his throat. He was certain his pulse had not slowed the entire night, which he’d spent trying to clean his rooms by candlelight. He wanted to run down to the water with the human boys that were calling to the sailors on board the ships that were closer in the harbor, no doubt calling to fathers and brothers. The other boys were probably only 13 or 14 years old and his lanky form would have fit right in with them.

He waited as the ship drifted closer. A longboat was lowered from one side, the ship apparently was not intending to stay long. He sprinted out to the docks, darting between the men who reached up to grab the anchoring ropes from sailors aboard a larger merchant ship. A heavy plank was lifted and leaned up alongside the ship so the passengers could disembark making way for cargo to be unloaded. America dodged this to make his way to where the smaller boat would pull alongside the dock. He could see England’s blond head coming up the ladder, striding onto the dock. America restrained himself for the moment, excited to show England how grown up he’d become.

England walked right past him, not seeing him at all.

America could not believe it. “England!” he shouted. England turned around. His expression showed confusion, looking for the person who had called out for him. America waved at him and in a moment surprise spread across his face.

“America? Is that you?”

America grinned. England looked as though he had been struck by lightning, the way he gaped at him. America came closer and stood in front of him, measuring their heights. He was almost as tall as England now. His smile widened. He wrapped his arms around the older nation’s neck and pulled him into a hug.

~*~

England watched the teenage boy across from him as they ate. A woman in a nearby house had taken pity on the boy living alone and would bring him meals every so often. Upon seeing England, the “famed older brother who did business abroad”, she had left and then returned to make them a meal. England had asked her to stay, but she smiled at him and said she wouldn’t want to impose on a family reunion. America talked through each bite telling England stories of everyday minutiae and the interesting experiments of some man named Franklin down in Philadelphia.

"America, slow down. I can't understand you when your mouth is full." England suppressed a smile as America paused after taking a particularly large mouthful of bread. He looked like a squirrel caught raiding another's midden. England did chuckle then, genuine mirth breaking out of him. It almost hurt, he had not laughed in a long time.

America took a big swallow. “I was worried that you wouldn’t like the way I sound.”

“The way you sound?”

“Well, I don’t sound like you. Canada doesn’t sound like France either, France was trying to teach him to pronounce words right. You won’t do that will you?”

England considered this for a moment. “I will have to find you a tutor,” America’s face fell, “But not right away, I will educate you while I’m here.”

America chewed thoughtfully, he was on his fourth plate of food and showed no sign of slowing, he took another big swallow, “I think I’m doing okay. I’ve been spending time at Harvard College, they let me use the library.”

England frowned, America did not see it as he had turned back to his food. He would have to investigate this school further. It had been chartered here in the colonies, who knew what they were teaching. He felt a pang of regret that he had not come sooner, but there was nothing for it. Obviously, the world was marching on. America’s rapid growth was proof of it.

“Hmmm?” he said, coming out of his thoughts at the sound of America's voice.

“What are we going to do tomorrow?” America repeated, his bright blue eyes expectant.

England gave the boy a half smile, “You will have to show me around. Things have change quite a bit it seems.”

America grinned, no doubt proud of his growth. England could not help but feel a bit of pride as well.

~*~

_January 1722_

_New York City_

The winter snows pressed against the sides of the frame house and through the front windows England was able to see the white piles drifting on the edges of the roadway, pushed there by the movement of people coming and going. It was the third winter he would endure in North America, but he looked forward to the cold and the quiet. It was impossible for most armies to wage war in the winter, and there were no guaranteed safe passage across the ocean.

He closed the heavy inner shutters before turning into the room and back toward the warm hearth. America sat near the fire, having dragged his writing desk close by. He was bundled in layers of clothing, a woolen hat covering his hair, and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He sat hunched over the book England had instructed him to read and shivered slightly.

England frowned, concerned over America's chill. Even when he was small some winters fazed America far more than others. Some he would be out in the snow as if it were nothing to him, but others he would sit huddled like this as if the very snow had seeped into his bones and did not allow him to warm up. Perhaps it was a sign this winter would be a long one. He dropped his own coat on top of America's shoulders and the boy looked up at him.

"Do all of the countries in this book have people like us?" America asked, pointing at a map of the known world. England nodded.

"Yes."

"And you know all of them?" England shook his head in the negative.

"Some of them like to keep to themselves." He pointed at some of the nations of Asia, "The people on these lands are very different from us and I have only met a few of them while traveling."

"I want to meet them." America insisted.

England smiled. "Perhaps someday you may. Keep reading, my boy, I will be testing your comprehension later." America made a face showing him exactly he felt about exams. England gave him a stern look and America turned reluctantly back to the book, any hopes for a break from his studies lost. England walked to his own writing desk to read over the letters he had received on the last ship. He sorted them and then broke the seal on an update from his brother, Wales.

The letter was several pages and informed him of the goings on in Europe. He raised his eyebrows as he continued to read. “Does Prussia think to rule eastern Europe? Picking a fight with Sweden now is he?” he mused aloud.

“Who are Prussia and Sweden?” America asked, looking up at him over the large book at the writing desk. England appraised him. America was getting that look in his eye that he would find an excuse to sneak off if England didn’t give him something else to work on. The boy had no head for staying all day indoors.

“If I show you their homes, will you continue to study quietly for the next hour? And I believe you met Sweden once, but perhaps you were too little...” America nodded and shrugged. “Well, then come over here, a new gift for the house arrived this morning that should help demonstrate national boundaries. It’s in the front hall in a crate. Please unpack it and bring it to the drawing room.”

America jumped out of his chair, all youthful long legs and headed out of the room. England finished his letter and made some notes of what he would reply to his brother before walking into the room. England left the room and walked down the hall to the drawing room, moving the candlestick from the small tea table to make it into a stand for what he sent America to fetch.

The boy returned momentarily. He sat it on the table and stepped back. “It’s a globe. The governor has one in his study.”

“I’m sure he does, but this one is made from the most recent advances in cartography.” England spun it gently and the orb circled. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, the wood had been painted with a meticulous eye to detail and the brass stand and arm had delicate metalwork roses all along it. He put his finger on the globe to stop its progress, his finger over the word Moscow. For a moment, he thought about how much borders had shifted over the last hundred years, sometimes he barely recognized the shapes on the map himself. “This is Sweden. What do you remember from the book you have been reading?”

“His weather is really cold.” England sighed, and was about to add more when America interrupted, “So where’s Prussia?”

England turned the globe just slightly to the right, so that his finger moved west along the continent. “He is from here.” He pointed at the Kingdom of Prussia. “I don’t know him that well, although we have been allies in the past.”

“Whose this?” America asked, then got close and read the words, “Poland.”

“And Lithuania.” He pointed at several other nation names within the border.

“Why are they all together.”

“Currently, they live together. Sometimes when our humans make alliances, we come together like a family.”

“But what does that make me, your King is my king, right?”

“You are a colony, America. I am building an empire.” England replied. America seemed to consider this, spinning the globe so that it turned even further to the right.

“This is you.” He pointed at the island of Great Britain. England nodded. America spun the globe even further westward, across the Atlantic. He pointed at the color that represented British holdings in North America, and this is me. What’s over here?” He pointed at the rest of the North American continent, or as much of it as cartographers had been able to surmise.

“Well, Spain has colonies along here. But the rest is probably just wilderness.” England shrugged. It was possible that there was something worthwhile, but there was simply too many unknowns to warrant any such ventures. America leaned on his elbows on the table and examined the New World. England left him to order afternoon tea from a servant and came back to find the colony still contemplating the map.

“Come, America, you said you would get back to your studies.” With his words, America blinked up at him. He made a show of reluctance upon going back into the study, but when England found him again, the young colony had his nose dutifully in the book.

England smiled, and settled back into his own work.

~*~

_August 1744_

_Connecticut_

America leaned back against the apple tree, he had been in the orchard all morning until the heat of the sun had driven all of the boys out of the sun to seek sanctuary in the shade. He pulled out a copy of the book England had ordered out of his satchel and sat down to read it. He had been learning more and more about science recently and this man with the funny name, Linnaeus, had some really interesting ideas.

“Ah, there you are, America.”

“England!” America smiled and jumped up from his spot, catching England in a hug. “I thought you would be at the assembly all day.”

“It wrapped up early, there seemed to be a consensus that no one wanted to be in that building when the heat set in for the afternoon. The farmer’s lad told me you were up here helping.” America went back to settle down in the shade and England sat down beside him. “Taking a break are you?”

“Just until the sun starts down the other way. I was reading that new book you brought.” England looked at him curious, he peered at the title.

"Learning about natural history with Linnaeus then are you?" he said. America grinned at him and nodded.

"The animals he talks about are really magnificent. ...I want to see all of them someday!" England smiled at his enthusiasm, and it pleased America. His smile widened.   
  
"Want to become an explorer do you?"   
  
"Yes, just like you." England settled down beneath the tree beside him, a small smile still on his lips. America liked making England smile, he got the feeling that it was not England's usual expression unless he was around him. England pulled out a stack of letters from his satchel and set to work sorting through them. America turned back to the book, interested in the description of long-necked animals on the African continent. America scooted closer to England so he can lean on him as he read. After a while he found himself less focused on the words on the page on on the little twitches and noises from England as he read the letters. He grew still at one, America wondered if what was within was serious. England had gotten a lot of letters lately, he always seemed cooped up at his writing table, a candle always lit to melt the sealing wax as he completed letter after letter.   
  
"Are you going to leave soon?" America asked, looking up at England. England looked back, a surprised expression on his face. He wrapped an arm around America's shoulders, a gesture of affection that would have normally made America feel happy. America could feel something off about it, it was one of the most formal hugs he'd ever received from the elder.   
  
"What makes you say that, America?"  
  
America frowned. "I'm not a baby anymore. You can tell me. I won't cry." His voice wavered slightly, giving him away, but he tried to look determined, as opposed to worried. England seemed to consider his words.   
  
"No, America, you are not as little as you used to be. But you are not ready to deal with all of this." He held up the letters and America pushed away from England's embrace. He turned and looked down at England. England's expression was one America had never seen directed at him and it made his stomach twist. England was genuinely shocked at his outburst.  
  
"Just because you don't think I'm big enough to know doesn't mean you are keeping me safe. What about France's people attacking mine at the Battle of Ackia. You not telling me you and he were fighting again didn't keep me from getting hurt." Before England could reply he turned on his heel and ran down the path through the orchard. He didn't stop until he had gone all the way down the lane to his Concord home, a small frame house that he himself had white-washed as soon as the snows had melted. America liked this house because it was small enough not to need servants. He was grateful for that because he knew he would have to fix the door later, it had come off its hinges when he'd pulled it shut too forcefully.   
  
The parlor was cleaner than he'd left it that morning. England had no doubt cleaned up some of his things that he'd left laying about when he'd decided to escape into the great outdoors. One of his little soldier figures had been sat upright on the tea table and America snatched it into his fist and sat down in England's brocade arm chair near the hearth. As it was summer no fire burned, but the discoloration of the flames clung to the stones.   
  
America had grown too big to curl up in England's chair as he had done in the years he was gone. He tried now anyway, his teenaged limbs gangling over the edges as he lay his head on the arm. England had insisted last week that it would need to be reupholstered. America could feel the threadbare cloth under his cheek, but it would not be the same if England changed it. The afternoon sun came spearing through the linen curtains and bothered his eyes. He shifted in the chair so that his back was to the room and his view was filled with the red, white, and rare blue threads of the chair.   
  
The anger that he had felt at England did not cool and laying here now, he felt it was justified. He had told England the truth, even if the other probably did not like it. Facts were facts, he got hurt whether or not he knew what was coming. And despite all of the military might of England's growing empire around the world, he would not always be able to be there. I have to be stronger... America thought. Maybe if he sees that I can fight as well as he can he'll start letting me help.   
  
It had become obvious to America, after the sheer joy of England's return had worn off years ago that England was determined to still see the little boy from the wilds. England seemed suspicious of his universities and did not seem all that impressed with America's discoveries. England was interested in them, but America could feel his men and women's frustration as their works were scrutinized across the Atlantic and then published under an Englishman's name. America was fond of looking at the globe and the Atlantic did not seem so wide, why was that side so much more important then? He had asked England if he could go with him on a short trip England had taken not too long ago, but he had been refused. England said it was hard for your nations to be outside their borders and therefore America should stay put. America plucked at a loose thread in the back of the chair, the excuse England had used seemed thin, but he had not thought to question it then.  
  
The door opened and closed again, the broken hinge squeaking. He heard England's sigh as he attempted to get the door to stay in the frame. He must have managed it, or given up, because it was only another minute or so until England's footsteps echoed on the wooden floor and then were muffled by the Oriental rug he'd gotten from a trade with India some years ago. America could remember staring at the intricate design on the rug and watching as the colors weaved in and out of each other. When he asked England if he could trade with India to get such things himself, England had again told him that it would be better if he just dealt with the other nations. England took the chair that America usually sat in, the legs creaking a little beneath his weight. America waited for the lecture, but none came. Just the occasional sound of England shifting in his seat.  
  
The afternoon light lengthened and brushed the top of the chair where America stayed, as silent as the elder. The other chair creaked again as England stood up, America wondered for a moment whether he was going to pull him from the chair and strike him for being obstinate and childish, but still nothing. Curious, America shifted so that he could look over his shoulder and see what England was up to.   
  
England's back was to him. He stood in parade rest, his hands clasped behind his back and observed a sketch that hung from the wall. It was one that England had made years ago, a sketch of the ships in the harbor of New York City, the masts towering as high as the trees they once were.  
  
"I'm sorry for yelling at you." America said, England turned his head so he could listen to him, "But I'm still mad at you." England's shoulders straightened before he turned around. America righted himself in the chair, assuming the pose he'd seen England take when visitors had come to their parlors up and down the coast. He wanted England to see that he was big enough to have his own ideas, and that they were worth being listened to. England came back to the the smaller chair and settled in it once again. He sat as straight as America was, trying to look stern.  
  
"I am leaving, America. You are right to be angry. I should have warned you." America's heart felt as thought it had plummeted to the floor. He had not wanted to be right about that.  
  
"When will you be back?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.  
  
"I do not know. There is a war brewing on the Continent and I need to be present. France will not stop harrying us here if I stop him over there." England said.   
  
"I want to come with you." England shook his head. "I can help!"  
  
England's lips twitched in a small smile. For the life of him, America could not tell what the elder found so amusing. "I need you to stay here where I know you are safe. I am sure once I'm gone Canada will be allowed to spend time with you again, you won't be alone."  
  
"I'll be fine, right?" England flinched slightly at the sarcasm in America's voice.   
  
"You assured me you were not a baby not two hours ago." England bit back. America stood up from his chair. He turned towards the door, intent on stalking out as soon as he received an answer to his question.  
  
"When are you leaving?"  
  
"At the end of the week." Two days. England would be gone again. America nodded and walked out of the room, intent on the stairs. He flew up them as quickly as he could and pushed his chair against the door to bar any entry England might attempt.   
  
He crawled under his quilt and let the upset overtake him.  
  
~*~  
  
The room suited America just fine for the next two days. He could hear England's step pause outside of his door as though the elder was going to knock and check on him. He could imagine England on the other side of the door, hand raised to knock, but then his footsteps would begin again. America heard him packing and hauling his trunks down the stairs, and still he could not pull himself up to help. He did not want to have any hand in England leaving him. It was the morning that he was going to set out that England finally spoke to him again.  
  
"America, I am leaving. Will you come out and say goodbye?"  
  
Silence. America felt stiff and could not move from his spot.  
  
"I will miss you. I will write to you. I---" England seemed unsure of what else to say, and he only waited a moment more before turning down the stairs and walking out of the house. America lay there longer, hearing the wagon pull away from the house and out towards the docks that would take England away from him. His body seized up with a desire to move and he scrambled from the spot he'd occupied and out into the street. He began to dash down the streets and over the fences of the neighbors so that he would be able to beat the horse and wagon to the docks. As angry as he still felt with England, he did not want him to leave without any words of goodbye. His voice had been frozen in his throat, but he was determined to find some.   
  
His lungs burned as he skidded to a stop near the docks, trying to find the ship that would take England back to his lands so that he could ready for a new war. There. He saw England disembarking from the wagon and directing the dockhands to carry his trunk on board the ship. America flew towards him and slammed into England's back, wrapping his arms around the older nation's chest.   
  
"I'm going to miss you too." America said, his voice muffled in the back of England's summer jacket, the fabric soft on his face. England twisted in America's grip so he could hug him around the shoulders.   
  
"Now, now we don't want to make a scene do we?" England said to the top of America's head, his own arms not loosening even as he chastised America for being too affectionate in public. It took several more minutes for America to step back, wiping at his eyes with his cotton shirt sleeves. England looked a little watery eyed as well.   
  
"Good luck, England." America said, trying to look braver than he felt.  
  
"With any luck this conflict will be over quickly and I will return."  
  
America nodded. England patted him on the head. "Next time I'm going to be big enough to help you."  
  
England's smile slipped, he gripped America by the shoulder. "Do not wish to grow up too fast." He pulled America close for an embrace and kissed him on the top of the head. "Be a good boy while I'm gone."   
  
America nodded, "Goodbye England."  
  
England smiled and nodded back. He was soon on the ship and America watched until it had sailed beyond the horizon, wishing he knew when England would be back.

 ****  
  
  
  
  



	10. Learning from War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England gets mixed up in the War of the Austrian Succession and America learns first hand how brutal war can be.

_Winter 1744_  
 _London, England_  
  
A sick feeling greeted England as soon as he set foot on his own shores. Something was wrong, and someone had been hiding it from him. He was soon walking the halls of Windsor castle and noticed that the presence of his brothers was conspicuously absent. It did not take him long to find out why.   
  
It appeared the failed usurper James was having another try for George II's throne. His son, Charles, was working with France to undermine the whole of Britain. Scotland had betrayed him. France seemed to want to harass him across the globe from North America, the East, and straight at his heart.   
  
He grabbed at a piece of parchment as soon as he returned to his rooms. His quill ready he scratched out the words, hoping that the recipient would hear some sense.  
  
 _Scotland,_  
  
 _Please do not do this. We will both bleed for this conflict._  
  
 _England_  
  
The response he received several days later was only three words in length. So be it. No greeting, no signature. Crumpling the letter, England held it to the candle on his desk. The parchment gave him a twisted pleasure as it crinkled and turned black in the flame. The fire licked at his fingertips, burning him. He dropped the paper to the table top slamming his open hand down upon it. The quick intake of breath reminded him of the presence of the messenger that had brought the letter. He turned to the man the markings on his uniform showing him to be a sergeant.   
  
"Who is in charge of keeping Scotland in line?" he demanded.  
  
"The Duke of Cumberland has been appointed as leader of the troops stationed in Scotland." England nodded and made note of the name.  
  
"Tell him I insist on weekly dispatches to appraise me of the situation."  
  
"Of course, my lord." The young man formed a hasty retreat. England turned to the other problem at hand, France and his ambitions on the Continent. He had joined with Prussia who apparently sought a slice of Habsburg power.  
  
~*~  
  
 _Vienna, Austria_  
  
It was not long before he was whisked across the sea to Austria's shores. England adjusted his new coat. It was cut in the latest style and it felt awkward after so long in the colonial fashions which tended to be simpler due to the cost of cloth. His discomfort was not just from the strange fit of the suit, it felt as though it had been far more than a few decades in which he'd directly dealt with European nations. The situation at hand reminded him why he had been avoiding it for so long. Austria sat across from him at the table, as prim and pristine as only he could achieve. England had expected a meeting in the field, but instead he had been sent to Vienna and to the fine palace. One could hardly believe Austria truly felt himself in any sort of danger. He seemed to address the war with disdain as though it were interrupting something far more important. England supposed that was how Austria saw the matter. He would get this over quickly and head back to his ships. The naval front had been going well. The state of his navy had been one of the only things he'd been pleased with since his return. They were the finest in the world after all, and he had learned with satisfaction that everyone on the Continent knew it.  
  
"Austria, as you should recall, my interest in this conflict primarily concerns France." Austria looked at him from over the rim of a tea cup, light reflecting off his spectacles. It was times like this he realized that while they may respect his naval power, those on Continent thought him terribly plain and unrefined. True, a gentleman should not bring up battle over afternoon tea, but he had already been here two days and did not want to prolong the sojourn unnecessarily.  
  
"France has proven himself to be an erstwhile ally time and again." Austria said, frowning. England barely suppressed a laugh, which he knew the other nation would not appreciate.  
  
"Yes, I am well aware of the fickle nature of France's interest." Austria eyed him as though he would be able to discern a deeper meaning than the obvious, shrugged delicately, and turned back to the food. England himself was very interested in the newest course. Examination of the offerings sapped some of his concentration, which seemed to suit Austria just fine. The elder nation fell into a story about a new composition easily enough. England set about sampling each of the dishes that the litany of servants brought forth, trying to impart them all to memory.  
  
It was some time later that they headed for the study and the map of Europe. Austria delayed them for a while longer with a discussion of port wine, but the two men were interrupted by the door opening. Hungary raised an eyebrow at Austria who had tried to look busy with the map as soon as she had entered in the room.  
  
"England."  
  
"Hungary, how are you?"  
  
She shrugged, "Well enough, I owe Prussia a punch in the face."  
  
"Don't we all." England replied. She chuckled and joined them at the map. While Austria had been slow to speak of military matters, Hungary had no such qualms. They discussed strategy well into the night.   
  
"Yes, that will do." Austria said, yawning behind his hand. "I have one more request of you, England, before you return to your ships."  
  
"What request?"  
  
"I need to you to attend a meeting I am supposed to be having with Prussia in a week's time."  
  
"Where will you be?" England asked.  
  
"I told you I could go." said Hungary, at the same moment England had spoken.   
  
"I am not feeling well enough for the ordeal, as for you, my dear," he said, taking Hungary's hand, "I need you by my side to protect me." He kissed her on the hand and she smiled. England looked away, not wanting to intrude upon them even if they would be so bold as to show their affection for one another before him.  
  
England cleared his throat, "What exactly is the purpose of this meeting?"  
  
"I'm sure it is Prussia making a veiled attempt to get me to surrender."  
  
Hungary gave an unladylike snort, "I doubt he is being so clever."  
  
"Regardless."  
  
"Could you not merely refuse him by letter?" If he did not have to spend the time dealing with Prussia he would not. There were French outposts to harass after all.  
  
"I fear he wants an in-person meeting."   
  
In the end, England was unable to find any good reasons to disagree and soon found himself riding out to meet with one of his current enemies.  
  
~*~  
  
 _Brandenburg, Prussia_

_Winter 1744_  
  
"You look tougher since the last time I saw you, little England. Hanover sharing blood with you has done you good. German blood does that." Prussia grinned at England's skeptical face. True, George II had Hanoverian blood, but England had never really dwelled on it much and reference to his monarch left a twisted feeling from the contender that was hiding somewhere in Italy, his son somewhere in France.  
  
The tent was tidy, maps spread across the table poking out from beneath a cloth that had been dashed over them so that England would not be able to see any battle plans that were no doubt being made in this very place. It was King Frederick II's tent and England could not help be impressed by the precision of the Prussian military. He made careful note of some elements he would like for his own army.  
  
"Perhaps you should pass on your preference for a German-blooded ruler to France. Then he would stop pushing Bonnie Prince Charlie to treason."  
  
Prussia shrugged, "You know that France doesn't give a damn for who your ruler is, he wants more land just like all of us." Prussia pulled a stopper from a glass decanter and poured wine into two glasses, handing one to England. "To more land!" England had to toast to that.  
  
"How are your brothers?" England asked.  
  
"Probably as good as yours. Saxony and Hanover are siding with Austria today. They'll see sense eventually."  
  
"Brothers do often come to their senses when we make them see sense." Prussia raised his glass once again.  
  
"From what I gather, England, is that even if your blood brothers are causing you trouble you are raising broods of little ones all around the world."  
  
"You make me sound as if I'm aspiring to be a mother hen." Prussia laughed.  
  
"I can see it now, your armful of little brats. Charming." Another bark of laughter.  
  
England made a sound deep in his throat to disrupt Prussia's mirth. "Speaking of being a mother hen, I hear that part of your ambition here is to snatch up your own little brother."  
  
"Austria isn't raising him right. He'll do better if he's with his German brothers. Gonna grow up soft otherwise." Prussia refilled his glass as England shrugged. He honestly did not have an opinion on that little bit of Prussia's business.  
  
"I'm not getting in between you two on that matter. France is using this as an excuse, once he is out of the fight, I will go too."  
  
"Does Austria know that?"  
  
"I did allude to such." England said, settling the glass down on the cloth covering the maps. Prussia's smile turned predatory.  
  
"It is a shame that you were in the New World for the last war and that you plan on staying a ship rat for this one. I want to see you fight."  
  
England smiled, "France does not share the stories of when I have trounced him in the past."  
  
"Ha! He carefully avoids those tales."  
  
"I'm surprised he has any war stories to tell then." They shared a laugh. England enlightened him to many of the stories France would not tell them until he resigned to leave. Prussia stopped him with a letter to take back to Austria.  
  
He could only imagine that Austria would not be amused.  
  
~*~  
  
 _May 11, 1745_  
 _Battle of Fontenoy_  
 _Austrian Netherlands_  
  
"You look unwell, England." Hanover said from his side of the table. The battle had been planned and now it was the time to wait. Time for gentleman and nations to settle into dinner. The officer's tent was spacious and well furnished, settled for a siege or ready to be packed up tomorrow. England had been staring into the candle flame, his hands poised over the tableware. His meal still sat untouched. He looked at the German now, he had not seen him since their royal houses became connected by marriage years ago.

"Sibling trouble." he said, not wishing to get into the details. No doubt the others knew all about it anyway, gossip tended to get around faster than official announcements.

"Well, we've all been there." Hanover replied and Netherlands made his own sound of acknowledgement. Netherlands had said few words to England, he could tell he was still slightly sore over the conquest of New Netherlands, now New York. They settled back into a companionable silence, only broken about casual remarks about this or that. The coming battle that even now the troops were preparing for would come after dinner. Final arrangements before the push in the early morning hours.

"Hanover." The three looked up. The voice belonged to a small, skinny adolescent boy standing in the tent flap. England had to do a double take, he could have almost been America the last time he had seen him. However, this boy's eyes were a cooler blue and his expression more severe than America's face had ever been.

"Germany, are you feeling better? You should sit." A servant was waved forward producing another chair. Germany looked apprehensive for a moment before settling into the chair beside his elder brother. A plate was produced and the boy picked up his utensils and began to eat with aristocratic decorum. England felt a twinge of jealousy, no matter what coercion he tried he could never get America to eat with that much composure. His boy was rough around the edges in a way this boy had never been.

He also had a strange feeling that he had seen him before, as a quiet boy almost haunting the halls of Austria's house. He looked at Hanover and asked, "Germany?"

"It is what we call him now."

"You have gotten big since the last time I saw you." Netherlands remarked, his expression as closed as ever. America had admitted he had been afraid of Netherlands when he was small, England wondered what he would think of this assembly.

"Thank you."

"He is growing up much finer now that he is not so confined. Although, some of our noisier brothers have been quite fond of monopolizing his time."

England remembered Prussia's enthusiasm and pride when he spoke about this boy. "Prussia told me all about you, he is very proud of your progress."

The boy's pale cheeks gained some color, although from pride or embarrassment England couldn't be sure. Hanover patted the boy on the shoulder. "News of Prussia's ramblings tends to travel far and wide."

Dinner ended and with plates cleared they joined their commanders for the battle. The sun had recently set, as soon as night fell they would move the artillery into position. Throughout the final discussions England found his eyes drifting to Germany tucked against Hanover's side listening to the designs of troop movements. Perhaps, America was also big enough now to take part in war. After all, many of them had been much smaller when they first tasted blood. England smiled, remembering the first time he'd stood over France in victory. Looking at the map he would be able to add another memory to his litany of battles with the other nation. This would be a fine battle, fifty thousand men on each side. The finest armies of the age about to clash. What happened tomorrow would no doubt be memorable and perhaps change the tide of the war. He had heard that France had even brought his King and crown prince to the battlefield, even more wonderful to rub his nose in failure.

Hanover brushed his sleeve on the way out of the tent, his fingers lingering for only a moment. England had the sudden remembrance of a drunken night of revelry decades ago. They lingered in the entrance. Netherlands ducked past them, clearing his throat loudly, embarrassing them both. Germany looked between them, a confused look on his face. "I have to get the little one into bed..." His trailing words held a question.

"Well, you know where to find me."

~*~

Dressing the next morning to the sound of cannon fire, England felt renewed. Things felt grand and the smile he received from Hanover at breakfast served to set his body even more excited for what was to come. This battle would end in glorious victory, he was sure of it.

England rode up towards the commanding officers. "Cumberland." he said, tilting his head. The duke tipped his head in return.

"We have focused our attack on the flanks, we will move forward soon." England nodded, watching as the British infantry gathered into their regimental lines. His troops made up the majority of the force. Disciplined and a force to be reckoned with. A corporal rode up.

"My Lord Cumberland, it appears our assault during the night was to little effect. The French troops were too far afield in the woods and the town. The advancement of the left flank is not proceeding as planned."

"We should make the drive at their center."

The anticipation grew with every step of his horse. He was half-tempted to dismount and join a regiment on foot, anything to be part of the action to come. But he resisted, not wanting to disrupt any of their regiments with an extra man.

The field lay out in front of them, French troops holed up around the town of Fontenoy and attacking the stronghold of Tournai even farther into the distance. The landscape was hilled, not the best for a clear advance, but it might not matter if the strategy was sound. Drums tapped orders through the lines and the soldiers marched forward.

At the crest of a hill, England felt his heart leap into his throat. The French troops were drawn out before the lines, no more than thirty paces. His eyes searched the lines and he found him almost immediately, drawn in the way they could be. France looked back at him, his face calm and unconcerned. He tilted his head at England in acknowledgement.

From down the British line a voice called out, "We are the English Guards and we hope you will stand 'till we come up to you and not swim the Scheldt as you did at the Main of Dettingen." England remembered reading the report of that battle and the way France stiffened in his saddle, he knew France remembered it too. The English officers took off their hats in salute to their French counterparts. The French returned the courtesy. England removed his own hat in a mocking salute to France, France returned the gesture. The canons continued to pound on the flanks of the French line. The soldiers stood awaiting the order that would signal them forward. "Gentleman of the French Guard, fire!" the same English voice called out again.

A French voice replied, "Gentleman, we never fire first, fire yourselves." The sentiment did not hold for long as the French lines tilted their guns at the British lines and fired with little effect. With a roar, British guns responded, a devastating volley. A step and the second line fell into fire. Volley after volley spilled French blood onto the soil.

The French line began to fall back and England lost sight of France in the smoke of musket fire. With well-trained precision the British troops began to advance rank upon rank, the fire unceasing as they loaded their muskets one behind the other. A gap formed and they progressed even farther into the French lines. England could taste the victory.

The boom of a cannon from the left tore through a rank nearby England, his horse rearing up and dropping him to the ground with a heavy thud. Men cried out around him gripping broken or missing legs. What had happened? England looked in the direction the fire had come. The Dutch troops on the left had fallen back, leaving the French artillery able to swing around and attack the advancing center. Taking a second to glance in the other direction, the right flank faltered as well.

"Damn." England said, pushing himself up from the ground and grabbing a musket from a dead soldier.

"Bayonet charge!" Someone shouted, warning him just in time as a French soldier came through the smoke right at him. He fired, the man fell dead at the point blank range. A blankness came over him.

Over the roar he heard Cumberland's voice, "Don't you know my countrymen? Will you leave me? I do not ask you to do anything without me, all i ask is that you share my danger!" A rally around the colors. There was no past and no future, just the thrust of a bayonet or the metallic sound of a ramrod down the barrel of a musket. Reload, fire, thrust bayonet. Repeat. A drum sounded, fall back. A push, French faltering, but then another surge came.

The drum beats changed. Sound retreat. England barely heard it, he caught sight of France now, still astride his horse, looking pleased with himself. Despite that it was the wrong direction he moved towards him stabbing. France's horse reared and dropped him to the ground, the beast running with other horses that had lost their riders. A cavalry saber flashed from France's hip as he rose and he belayed the bayonet thrust England had struck at his heart.

The blades flashed. "You should accept your loss, not your fight anyway." France said through gritted teeth.

England did not offer a reply as he thrust again. His anger surged. "Anything to take a shot at you after what you’ve been plotting behind my back."

"Oh please, that is just war."

"So is this." France's saber caught England's sleeve, biting through the fabric into his flesh. He caught France as well, the bayonet pushing through the skin of his hip. The human soldiers surged around them then and England was carried away by the tide, his eyes didn't leave France's until he was too far away to see him through the press of bodies.

Glorious victory, had turned into shameful retreat.

He left the war soon after, leaving the others to their mess and off to deal with his own.

~*~

_April 20, 1746_

_Four days after the Battle of Culloden_  
 _Edinburgh, Scotland_  
  
The ink blotted in large drops over the parchment, smeared all the more from the rain drops that dripped from the canvas of the tent. England knew that he should write America, but felt at a loss of where to start. He did not want to burden him with this, but the boy needed to know as this particular flood of immigrants no doubt carried anger and bitterness towards England in their hearts.  
  
Yet every time he put the quill to paper he saw Scotland's face from only a few days before. Despair crept into his heart at how much he had secretly wanted them to be Britain, together, to have the peace that they had never before had. Peace they never truly held.   
  
England had not felt that cold in a long time as he had in the bloodied mud of Culloden. His red wool coat was soaked through with rain sitting astride Scotland who glared up at him from the ground.  
  
"This is all your fault." Scotland spat, his face smeared with blood, his own and his peoples'.   
  
"My fault?! I'm not the one who started a rebellion!"  
  
"You are an overbearing bastard." He finished with a string of Gaelic curses that England could not altogether follow.  
  
"I thought--"  
  
"You thought you could just order obedience!" Scotland interrupted, "And when that did not work you decided to force it!" Scotland found a reserve of strength and shoved England so hard off him he was soon sprawling in the mud beside his elder brother. Scotland climbed out of the dirt, his kilt so caked with dirt and blood that the colors could no longer be seen. The will o' the wisps began rising from the field, stealing away the souls of the dead. "One of these days, little brother, you are not going to be able to keep one of us by force and you will be the sorrier for it."  
  
England picked himself off the ground and pulled himself as tall as he could. "A prophecy for me?" he snapped.  
  
Scotland tilted his head as though he were listening to something that England could not hear. "It is certain."  
  
England could only stare after him as he limped away across the battlefield. He's just trying to hurt me. England told himself, but he could not help feeling like he had swallowed ice and it froze him from the inside out.

The wounded were still coming in from the bloody field. He could hear gunshots echoing in the distance, a sterile sound now even though it signalled the execution of defeated rebels. He swallowed and tried to put the nib to the parchment again. What part of this could he even say to a young nation who he’d been trying to protect from such barbarism.

_I miss you._ It seemed too sentimental, a strange thing to write to another nation, even a younger one. He considered crossing the words out or crumpling up the paper to start again, but he decided against it. He wrote only a few more words to him, just appraising him that he was well and a few other carefully chosen lies.

_I hope to see you soon._

~*~

_May 28, 1754_

_The Battle of Jumonville Glen_

"Strange that they picked a man so young to lead."

"Only twenty-two years on him, and hardly a Virginia gentleman."

"Probably means that there won't be much trouble, just delivering messages is all. Boy should be able to handle it."

America poked his stick deeper into the cookfire, stirring the embers. He watched the sparks flare up in the afternoon light. The volunteer soldiers around him gossipped about skirmishes they'd fought with Indians or about how they would need to be home soon to make sure spring planting had gone as planned. America glanced over at George Washington, a young surveyor recently commissioned a lieutenant colonel by the Virginia governor. His mission had been simple when he was a major only a few weeks before. His troops had gone to deliver a message to the French that their presence on the Virginia claimed Ohio River Valley would not be tolerated. America had heard the French did not take the threat seriously at all, and now they were all here preparing to build a fort to hold off France.

Getting up from his seat, and conscious of the way some of the Virginians watched him, he made his way over to Washington. America knew they were curious about him, to their eyes he was a boy of fifteen being given special treatment to ride along on a mission for men.

"Can I sit with you?" he asked Washington.

"Of course, Mr. Jones."

America leaned close, "George, do you think we'll meet the French tomorrow?" Washington's jaw tightened at the overly familiar use of his first name.

"Lt. Colonel Washington." he said, in the tone of a schoolmaster teaching diction to young students. America was surprised at the sincerity in his voice, he's serious about this, huh? The cool stare Washington gave him said that he would not tolerate any semblance of tomfoolery on America's part, command was serious especially since it was his first.

America cleared his throat. "Okay, Lt. Colonel Washington, do you think we will meet the French tomorrow?"

"We are still awaiting word from the scouts and then choose the best plan of action. Our primary objective is the building of a fort."

"Do you Captain Hogg encountered the French after you sent him off yesterday?" Is that a smile? Washington's face soon drifted back into his general serious demeanor. America could sense the man was as anxious as he was.

"We will likely get a report soon. Patience." The commanding tone crept back into the last word. America's shoulders drooped. He was hoping for something to happen. There was a tension bubbling through him, the strain of a held breath. He'd felt it in his body before Queen Anne's War and King George's War. He had been too little to relive it then, and England had made sure he was nowhere near a battlefield back then. But this time, England was not here and he was big enough now.

He went back to his own fire, helping some of the older men make a meal. The sky was turning gray with a coming rainstorm and soon drops splattered their shoulders and tent flaps. They had been working here for four days already, and America began to suspect there would be a fifth.

Under the shelter of Washington's officer's tent he pulled out one of the books England had sent him. It was some philosophical treatise on mathematics. It acted as good as any sleep tonic. There was not much to be done in the rain after all. Washington settled himself with a travel desk, and a fresh piece of paper. Probably making a record of the events of the day for Governor Dinwiddie. He dozed and woke around sunset. He could hear voice and he turned toward the noise. He jumped up, startled. The Iroquois warrior looked amused at his reaction. He turned back to Washington. "The French are camped northwest about seven miles. We counted thirty-five men."

Washington remained quiet. America turned the news over in his own mind. If what the messenger said was true, then Washington had sent half the men in the wrong direction! Washington spoke, "It can be nothing but an attempt to uproot us before the fort can be built. We will have to attack. Inform your leader while I prepare my men." The warrior nodded and left.

America stood up and met Washington's thoughtful gaze. "I'm coming with you."

"I was ordered to keep you out of any danger."

America frowned, of course someone had said that. His mind raced for an excuse, "What if you leave me here and the French circle back? It's only thirty-five men, please Washington."

Washington appeared torn and turned back to his desk, tapping on the wood. He half-turned back. "You are to stay by my side. Can you promise that?"

"I promise."

"We will need to be prompt. Let us go and get the men ready."

~*~

The rain had pounded on them in the hours it took them to get into position. They had been waiting for the Indian scouts to give them the signal to approach. Creeping forward silently, America could see them now, the canvas of their tents and a few men sleepily readying morning cookfire. America's hands were cold on his musket as he crouched beside Washington. They seemed impossibly close to not have been noticed at all.

The thought seemed to float out to one French soldier, although, America could sense he was more Canada's than France's. It was not unlike how Washington was more his, for all he considered himself a British officer. He caught sight of something or someone because he shouted to his fellows.

Smoke. Musket fire. The next few minutes came to America in a blur of shouts and flashes. Then French voices broke through calling a surrender. His first taste of battle and he felt utterly bewildered. He was alone in the woods, Washing down below standing in front of a man who must have been the French commander. There appeared to be some sort of confusion over a document.

America jumped as a hand descended on his shoulder. "You should look away, young one." He looked up at the person who had spoken and immediately knew it was another nation. The tall man looked exhausted and his skin looked ashen. The Nation appraised him as America struggled for something to say, and wondering if there was anything he could or should say. A hollow thunk echoed through the clearing, breaking their focus on one another. Shouts and yells erupted and America tried to look through the chaos to see what had happened.

The captured French troops cowered behind the Virginia troops who know had their muskets trained on the warriors on the other side of the clearing. Several Frenchmen lay dead in the space between them. The man who had been speaking with Washington lay on the ground as well, his head cleaved in two. The leader of the group of Iroquois still held the bloodied hatchet in his hand. Shocked, America turned to where the other nation had stood only a moment before to find him gone. He was alone.

On shaky legs he made his way down the hill to join the soldiers and Washington as they retreated from the clearing with the captives. Washington's face was pale and America felt sick as the dead French soldiers were left behind.

_Look away young one._ America shook his head at the memory. _I'll never be able to look away again._


	11. The French and Indians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seven Years War has begun...

_July 1754_

_Albany Congress for the Unification of the Colonies_

America fidgeted,  pulling at the new fabric of his jacket. The room was warm and no one seemed to agree on anything except the fact that they disagreed. He looked around the space where delegates were spread out at desks covered in documents and notes. The governor of New York sat at the head of it all trying to wrangle an agreement that would, in theory, keep them safe against the advances of the French and their Indian allies. If only everyone had shown up, America thought.

From his spot he could hear Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania talking to Thomas Hutchinson of Massachusetts. If the entire meeting was going to be lost, he'd at least wanted to talk to the former man about some of his inventions. Maybe Mr. Franklin had something that could stop war coming down on his head.

"Unification is the only real way we will all be safe."

"Yes, I have considered the concept as well, but it appears we may be the only two. Beyond that dreadful plan from London."

"Indeed, although if this," a hand waved to indicate the room, "is any proof it may take London's mandate."

America had been told more times than he could count that eavesdropping was rude, but when the two middle-aged men noticed him sitting close by they did not seem to mind.

"Mr. Hutchinson, have you ever had the pleasure of meeting America himself?" said Franklin. America greeted the other man. "What do you think of all this, America?"

"The meeting or the rest of it?"

"Your choice."

America looked down at his hands, remembering the events on the frontier. When he had written to England about what happened, he had hoped he would come. Instead he got a letter that was half-chastisement and half praise. England seemed excited over the prospect of a sneaking frontier war with France. "I don't know how I feel about any of it." he admitted.

Hutchinson leaned forward and patted him on the shoulder and patted America on the shoulder, a fatherly gesture, "While I've never met Britain, I would wager you are his pride and joy. He won't let anything happen to the colonies."

America knew Hutchinson meant that England would do all he could to stop France from taking him. He knew that deep down, but it already felt as though something had happened to him, that something had changed forever.

~*~

Retired in his quarters that evening, America couldn't sleep. He lit a candle in his room and went over to the small writing table in the corner. He addressed the note to England, wanting to tell him of the results of the Albany congress.

_I think that France is very angry with me this time._ He added, after he had completed what he thought was a good account of everything that had been said and suggested at the meeting. However, he did make a point to leave out some of Mr. Franklin's opinions regarding the conduct of those in London in charge of colonial trade. He chewed on the end of the quill trying to think if there was anything else that he should say.

Remembering, he pulled out a letter he had tucked into the back of one of his books. The letter started with no endearments, and he would have hardly recognized it if not for France's elegant handwriting. It was like nothing he had ever written to him before.

_America. You are not so little anymore that I can turn a blind eye to your youth or inexperience. While I have tried to protect you and your brother from the more gruesome aspects of my relationship with England, I will not do so anymore. If you are going to stand against me personally, I will not hold back. Think before you allow England to make you fight his battles for him. France._

America brushed the tip of the quill against his mouth, considering what he would write to England.

_France has written to me. I think he wants you to fight him, not me._

_He paused again, touching the inky nib to the paper a few times before committing to his words._

_I know I can fight him. I've been reading your books and trying to listen to the commanders. I know the land better than you. I can do this. I will do my best for you._

_Affectionately yours,_

_America_

He sealed up the letter and tucked it with the few others he had written while idling the days in the wilderness waiting for an attack. Next post he planned on sending them all to England, hopefully he would be proud.

~*~

_Spring 1755_

_London_

The letters sat in in neat piles on his desk. England frowned over them, worry and excitement at the prospect of another war vying for position as the dominant emotion. A hint of rage at France's audacity also threatened to defeat all the emotions he could feel. Scotland's boots entering his vision brought his attention to the presence of his brothers.

"If you would kindly get your feet off my papers," he said, shoving at Scotland's boots, "And why do you look so smug?"

"Just admiring how you will somehow find a way to be indignant with France although it was your darling boy that started it."

"If France had not been sneaking about they would never have crossed paths."

"You have the most fascinating fictions, _Sassenach._ I thought Ireland was the yarn spinner in the family." He leaned forward and tapped at the letters from America. "I actually thought you had ordered the boy to do something. And yet it is actually luck that is going to give you a chance to lay into France as you've been desiring for years." England watched him, a cool expression on his face. Scotland had not come quietly back into his house, and England was reluctant to let him out of his sight.

"Regardless of who started it, England will be obligated to do something about it now." said Wales, looking between his two brothers. England smiled at him.

"Quite right." He returned to his desk shuffling through the reports. He missed the look that passed between his brothers. "I will be taking to the sea. Wales--"

"Yes, yes, I will see to it." he said, taking the papers that England handed him across the desk.

"Scotland--"

"I'll wait until you have returned before having another go at you." An awkward silence. "Or rather, perhaps you could let me take a shot at dear France myself. He's shit for an ally sometimes." England looked at him, trying to quell the suspicions of which he knew he should take heed. His brothers had been trying, not very successfully, to work better together. Perhaps he could give Scotland a chance.

"When I have work for you, I'll send orders."

Scotland raised an eyebrow, "Then I will await my _orders._ " The stress on the final word gave England a small taste of satisfaction that he'd needled his elder brother in some way.

"And I will go see the king." He excused himself from the room and walked through the palace. The place had changed so much since his rulers had first moved to this place. The tapestries of centuries past had been replaced with art and images of a far more modern bent. Some of the rooms that would once have held displays of medieval armor had been replaced with scientific instruments and maps of the world that were updated for accuracy as his ships sailed around the globe. The words "British Empire" drifted from the lips of modern courtiers and England felt pride in the idea. Yes, he liked the sound of empire. Those in the privy chamber looked up at him as he passed, heading straight for King George II who was settled in his chair, discussing an account book with a member of Parliament. The elderly man waved his fingers, dismissing the one he spoke with and greeting his country with a paternal smile.

"You look pleased about something."

"As I'm sure you have heard your Majesty, the French have made a move against the American colonies."

"Yes, I have heard. I intend to send our fastest ships to intercept their troops before they ever set foot on our soil in North America. I presume you would like to accompany them?"

"Yes, if I could be spared."

"You will best serve me in intercepting our enemies." England bowed to him and was soon off to meet with the Admiral of the Fleet and to assign himself to a ship. His heart sang, until he had set foot on a warship again, he had not realized how much he missed the smell of gunpowder mixed with the ocean breeze. How much he had missed waiting for the wave to crest before firing his musket at an enemy marine.

~*~

At sea for several days with no sight of a French ship England though on America's letters. He had hastily packed several of them into his trunk before leaving. They did not carry any particularly vital information that his brothers would need there, so he thought he could bring them with him. He had caught Wales watching him, and wondered if his brother thought he was being a sentimental fool. At the moment, at home on the ocean, he didn't care. He felt the boy's impatience to fight with France, infectious. England  was willing a French color to appear on the horizon so he could have the satisfaction of thwarting France's plan before it was even underway.

_That boy of yours started it._ Scotland's words seemed petty now, even though England had felt pleasure that America had given him every excuse. He was a good lad, a shining example of what his colonies would be. America's cleverness and industry was filling the treasury of the British crown with gold, and now he had sparked the seeds of a war that could be quite profitable indeed. He felt a surge of pride, America was big enough now to stand with him as he crushed France into the dirt. He'd been meaning to put a crimp in his stride for years, conflict was brewing, the nations of the Continent twitchy with it for years.

A young officer interrupted his imaginings of what he would say to France when they came face to face. He held up a spyglass. "On the horizon, my Lord." He held out an arm in the direction. Raising the glass to his eye England looked. So it was a ship that black speck on the horizon. Too far away to see a name or guess at its origin. He lowered the glass.

"What does the Captain intend?" he asked.

"To pursue."

"Carry on." He had chosen his ship well, the man in charge as eager for a confrontation as he was.

They sailed, gaining ground on the ship slowly as the wind was against them. England appealed to any deity he could think of in his long history for a fair wind to push them closer or for more ships to appear along the horizon like beads of a shattered necklace. As the days passed it was far more likely this was a merchant vessel, a troop ship would not travel alone.

A week later a fortuitous wind caught the sails and carried them towards the vessel. While French it was, military it was not. The ship did not put up any resistance when they made it clear they wished to board.

"I saw them pass in the distance." the captain said. England waited patiently for more, when none came he turned his face away. The man muttered under his breath in French, "You English dogs will not catch them before they reach the shores."

England let a wry smile creep onto his face. "Well, if that is the case then we may as well be at war." He turned to the lieutenant that had come on as commander ot the boarding party. "We seem to have captured a prize." The other man smiled and nodded, starting to bark orders to the contingent of sailors and marines that had accompanied them. Privateering, it settled like a cloak onto his shoulders and England felt the rush of it.

"You would not dare!" The French captain replied, his eyes widening as the English began to move below decks.

"If any of your men resists we will be forced to sink your ship into the depths. Or perhaps leave you in a long boat and take command ourselves. Do you understand me?"

The French captain nodded, resentment in his eyes. He imagined that it was France's face, it was the look he would have when word got to him about this. The man shouted orders at his own men who looked on helplessly as the goods were seized. In several hours they had taken what they wanted and left the ship to limp back to France or a Canadian port, whatever the captain dared.

Letters and orders passed between other British ships they came across. England was certain that one of them would eventually contain the call for all out war. Then things would get truly interesting. Despite the burgeoning hulls and the few French ships they were able to turn back, England worried about America. Word had become sparse. _Perhaps the letters have passed me and are on my desk in London..._ he thought. If he did not see anything within the next two weeks he decided he would return to not only see the dispatch, but to ready infantry to support the British Irregulars in America.

~*~

"Ahoy!"

"Ahoy!" They had come across the other English vessel in the night, signalling each other with lanterns, but waiting until daylight for an approach in case it was a trick. The sea calm they were able to pull up beside one another, suspending ropes and boards so quick footed sailors could trade information and other materials. England leaned on the ships rail and observed the exchanges, one of the young ship boys came across a gangplank with a large bundle in his arms. He stopped in front of England.

"They were carrying post, sir." He offered the bundle to England who took it, quickly turning towards the captain's quarters where he would be able to spread the letters on the dining table, seeking a particular scrawling hand. He settled the personal correspondence aside and tucked military dispatches into a pile. There! He grabbed at the letter addressed to his human name from an Alfred Jones, a name they had picked out for America in front of the fire one evening years ago. He broke the seal and unfolded it. Several letters were bundled within the outer. The note was full of detailed descriptions of where he was and what he was facing. He tried to imagine the words in America's voice as he had last seen him, a thirteen year old boy trying to be brave.

"Any news?" the captain asked, ducking into the room. As he reached the table his own fingers began to brush through the envelopes looking for intelligence.

"I need you to take me back to London." He dreaded that he needed to go there first, but he needed the declaration of war in hand. "Then we will travel to America with troops post haste."

He would praise America for how well he had done so far, but he was determined to be there to help him through the rest.

~*~

_January 16, 1756_

_London_

_Convention of Westminster_

"Are we all in agreement?"

Prussia pulled the paper towards him and perused the terms of the agreement of friendship. He leaned back in his chair looking over the contract. England had the sense he was being weighed against other options, but then the teasing look he exchanged with Hanover shattered that notion. Prussia turned to Germany, who they had brought with him to the meeting. The fondness between elder and younger brother made England's heart ache. He needed to actually see America soon, but first this had to be dealt with. A fight with France in North America would be difficult if problems arose in Europe. He was determined to not let things fall around his ears.

Prussia handed the paper to Germany and had the boy read it, leaning down to point out various aspects of the contract. Hanover sighed and leaned toward England, "Don't worry, he'll sign it. As much as he'd love to pick another fight with Austria he doesn't have the numbers. He's going to hold onto Silesia as long as possible."

"Lover's words, Hanover?" said Prussia, smirking at them both. England tried to keep his face passive despite the flush he felt on his neck.

"As if you would know anything about that sort of talk."

"What? You should take it as a compliment. He's going to fight on my side all to keep your pretty face from being smashed in by France."

"And because he has an alliance with Russia who, although I doubt I need to remind you, would like to punch your face in."

"Nah, I think he's just decided to trade French bedsteads for German ones."

"Prussia!" England and Hanover said in unison.

"What?"

"Germany is present." said Hanover. The boy in question had buried his face behind the document. Only the top of his blond head was visible. Prussia reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately.

"Don't worry, it goes over his head. But the kid will have to learn how things work eventually."

"From you? The poor boy will think he'll only be able to show affection by bashing another over the head. I don't recall you having much prowess in that area, nor experience. Although, England, I suppose you can enlighten me."

England frowned at him, "And how would I do that?"

"Interesting, I'd always assumed on that campaign..."

England shook his head vehemently while Prussia said, "Nah, while he does have a fine ass, not enough German in him. Although I suppose you've fixed that Hanover--"

England cleared his throat loudly and cut him off. He stood, the two elder Germans grinned with amusement while the youngest still had his face hidden behind the contract. "I have not had enough to drink to have this conversation, sign the paper!"

"Does that mean we can drink after?"

"If we must."

Prussia made a show of considering it, but his very presence here made it a done deal. He accepted the paper back from Germany whose cheeks were pink with embarrassment, which made England think not as much went over his head than his brothers thought. Prussia signed with a flourish. "Let's get a toast to celebrate our friendship!"

"Perhaps we should get Germany going on his studies before that." suggested Hanover. _This is going to be a long night_ , England thought, _especially if they think the rest of the evening should not involve young nations._

Hanover left first with Germany in tow. Prussia caught up to England in the doorway of the room.

"Don't worry about what I said, France has told me enough stories about you that --"

"Prussia," England took a deep breath before continuing, "Trust me when I say that I do not stay up late at night worrying over the fact that you don't find me an overly attractive bed mate."

The German laughed and took a swat at England's ass as he brushed past him into the hallway. England managed a punch to Prussia's shoulder before he was too far away, which made him cackle louder.

"Where are those brothers of yours?" shouted Prussia down the hall, "Let's make this a night to remember!"

~*~

_July 1756_

_London_

"Why did no one inform me while I was away that we were suffering losses! Edward Braddock died nearly a year ago passing his command to low level Regular and Irregular commanders!" England wanted to shove all of the papers off of his desk. He had been at sea for some time and yet no one tried to track down his ship, nor put in word at any port.

"Acadia was captured last year, extending your territory." Scotland said, brandishing a letter opener at the map. "Your commanders don't think it is wise with the stirrings of war on the Continent for you to go gallivanting off to your wee lad." He shoved a report from the Duke of Cumberland at England. "Not to mention your commanders are busy acting as pissants with one another."

"Go and fetch the Duke of Cumberland."

"What makes you think I would set foot anywhere near that man?"

"Then find someone else to fetch him, I don't bloody care."

Scotland shrugged and dropped the letter opener on the desk with a metallic clunk. England dropped into the chair behind his desk, trying to gather his anger. Not even America had written in the few letters he'd been able to gather about the mess brewing in the colonies. The comfort he had been planning to offer the boy was now going to be an earful about respecting orders and authority. Cumberland's report lay on the desk detailing the insubordination of the Irregular troops throughout New England in particular, refusing to march with the Regulars being only one of the issues. Lord Loudoun had been sent with the idea to bring them to heel, but England doubted it was going to make much of an effect. I've been too soft on him.

"Your requested my presence?"

"Yes, Cumberland. I want to know the state of the effort in North America."

"It is all detailed in my report."

"Quite, what I want to know is why we have not sent further troops to shore up the forces already present."

"We are primarily concerned with actions here on the Continent, now with the war official--"

"I am not asking that we do not look to strengthen our position on this side of the Atlantic," England said, cutting off the duke in his exasperation, "Your report says it, we were able to gain Acadia with forces with very little discipline. Imagine what we could do with a greater Regular position? Why are we wasting an opportunity to capture the whole of North America?"

"We have been considering the prospect. I take it you would wish to sail with the army?"

"For now at least. Perhaps my presence would also act as a reigning force on America."

"Lord Loudoun would no doubt appreciate that, it seems he is finding him a challenge." Cumberland considered the map that England had been examining as well as the dispatches and reports. "I will see if I can not expedite this process. I will inform you immediately when a date is set to leave." They nodded to one another and Cumberland exited the room.

England turned back to his desk and lay his hands possessively over the map of North America. To have America safe from France and finally gaining Canada under my roof officially, what couldn't we accomplish?

He smiled.

~*~

_August 1756_

_Fort Oswego in the Ohio River Valley_

The fort was half-finished, some wooden walls and earthworks were all that would stand between them and any enemies. America had thrown himself into digging earthworks alongside the other men. He'd tried to stay by the fort's commander, James Mercer's side like he had promised New York governor William Shirley, but he had quickly grown fidgety. Beyond that Mercer did not seem to know what to do with the guardianship of his teenage nation. The Lieutenant Colonel Mercer Mercer was far to busy to keep an eye on America.

The labor was far more diverting than the books England had sent him, outlining ancient battles between nations that had since disappeared. Recently, he had written to England for books about battles with France, but he had not yet received word back. As far as he could tell, France was not in North America, although one of his new commanders had recently arrived. The scouts said that man was on his way here.

He paused, wiping the sweat off his brow and looking down the path towards Fort Ontario. The smaller fort was just as thin as Fort Oswego, with the cannon emplacements pointing towards the river. America's stomach grumbled and he lay a hand on it. There was not enough food, hadn't been since the safety of the supply train had been destroyed. He planned on asking permission to ride out in order to meet up with some suppliers or to head back to the big cities to see what was happening in the assemblies. He knew that Governor Shirley was trying to keep America and his people away from the regulars, especially after the disastrous battle in Virginia last year. When America had written to England about that battle, he had chosen not to mention that General Edward Braddock was, what he thought, a blowhard and unwilling to listen to reason. He imagined that England wouldn't have appreciated the fact America was grateful he'd been killed.

Leaves rustled in the forest. It's just the wind, he told himself. He couldn't see anything beyond the dense foliage, but a cold shiver still ran down his back.

"Someone step on your grave, boy?" asked one of the soldiers digging beside him.

"I hope not."

He told himself it was just nerves and went back to work. He tossed and turned in bed all night, his anxiety keeping him wakeful.

~*~

The boom of a field cannon startled America right out of his blankets. At first he thought it was particularly loud burst of thunder, but no rain sounded on the top of the canvas shelter. Then it came again and again, he had never heard one fired in battle before. He grabbed his musket and hurried out with the rest of the men. He looked in the direction of the noise, during the night the French and their allies had come through the trees and dug trenches. They had built platforms for their cannons and were pounding at the sides of Fort Ontario and Oswego.

"Pull the men back from Fort Ontario!" Mercer ordered and a subordinate officer jumped to carry it out. America squinted at the smaller fort, confused at Mercer's order. Then he saw it, their cannon defenses were facing the wrong direction! Even if they had been turned to fire the cannon crews had no defense and were completely exposed. With the men pulling back from that position there was no outer defense. The cannons would tear through their flimsy defenses. Despite the warmth of the August morning, America felt his entire body chill with fear.

He made his way over to Mercer who ordered him to stay by his side. America nodded, afraid his voice would shake in the noise of cannons and the pops of musket fire. The booms had now redirected towards Fort Oswego.

America turned, intending to ask Mercer what they should do, but the man was gone in an instant, blown away by a cannon ball. Across his body, America's eyes met with the fearful white face of the man who was now in command. It took several exchanges of fire for the man to collect himself enough to order a cease-fire. America stepped carefully over Mercer's body to ask the man, "We're giving up?"

"I will not have us slaughtered." he said through clenched teeth. He turned and ordered someone to bring up the white flag.

~*~

Huddled with the other soldiers, America watched the French troops swarm into the fort. Their commander, Montcalm, had decided that they had given up too soon to be worthy of the honors of war. They were all prisoners now.

And America had been wrong, France was very much present in North America. He had spotted America immediately. "Imagine meeting you here, mon petit Amerique." he said as he plucked America from the rest of the troops. Despite the endearment, America had never heard his voice so cold.

"I didn't think you were here... Canada brought me your message."

"He is a good boy." France led America away from the noise of men negotiating. America felt as if he were caught in a bear trap, even if France's arm over his shoulder seemed friendly.

"What are you going to do to me?"

France chuckled. "You have always been so direct."

"That doesn't answer my question."

France stopped their progress. He lifted his arm to pat America on the cheek. "You will be my guest in Montreal until dear Angleterre makes his intentions absolutely clear. And then you will be my prisoner until he cedes the valley."

"You think I'll just go with you?" America flinched when France grabbed him hard by the upper arm.

"You do not have a choice."

Screams erupted from the direction of the fort. They turned to see that chaos had erupted between the French and their Indian allies. America saw his chance. He shoved France as hard as he could, knocking him off his feet and into a tree. Without a look over his shoulder he tore into the forest, running as fast as he could.

Cutting through the noise at the defeated fort he heard France cursing him and England in the same breath.

~*~

_October 1756_

_Albany, New York colony_

"Lord Loudoun, why are the men quartered in the field? What is the plan for winter?" England said as soon as he'd been shown to the Commander in Chief's presence. He had been shocked to see many of the soldiers had not been put up in any form of shelter in the town. He had been met by Loudoun's second in command, Abercromby, who had filled him in as they traveled into the town where the commander had set up his headquarters. It did not sound at all promising.

"The colonists are refusing to respect quartering laws. It was a challenge to find placement for those that did. I had to wrest these very rooms by force!" England pressed his mouth tight, suppressing the sigh, apparently America's insubordination was going to have to be dealt with first.

"Have you seen him?" It did not take Loudoun long to figure out who he meant.

"I know he was ordered back into the town to await for you, but I don't have time to babysit. The colonial legislatures are causing me enough headaches as it is."

"I believe he was able to gain a room at one of the farmer's homes near the outskirts of town." said another man, who looked as though he was long suffering something. With the terseness that seemed to define Loudoun's face, England could very well guess it was the commander that caused the lines.

"Understood. If you will excuse me." Loudoun waved a hand and England set out into the town. It took several inquiries with residents that looked at his red military jacket suspiciously until he found out where America had holed up. As he approached the farm, he half-tempted to see America trying to escape out into the forest beyond, but he rationalized that it was probably just his disappointment talking. He had been concerned and it turns out his concern should not have been for America's well-being, his concern should have been over his loyalty. I thought I taught you better than this.

A woman stood at the door as he dismounted his horse, watching him as he tied up the animal to a post and came closer. "Madam, forgive me for disturbing you, but I was told that an Alfred Jones was staying here and I need to speak with him immediately."

"And you are?" the woman asked.

"Arthur Kirkland." Her eyes widened briefly. Perhaps America had been hoping he was not really coming and had only told his hosts that there was a minor possibility that England himself would be arriving on their doorstep. The door opened a few minutes later and he was ushered inside to a small dining room. He was surprised at how fine the furniture was, but he had heard that joiners and other craftsmen were making their way further and further into the colonies. When America wrote him regularly he had told him all about fine little inventions, although silence had crept up in the last year.

"He will join you shortly. I am working on supper I will bring you some when it is ready."

"Thank you." England said, he settled his hat on the back of the chair and settled in at the head of the table. A small clock nestled above the stone mantle ticked in the quiet. He could hear footsteps on the wooden floorboards, footsteps that hesitated on the other side of the door. England shored himself up for the scolding he would serve America, readying it on his tongue.

When America appeared, however, all of the angry pretense dropped from him. America did not look an inch smug or pretentious as the lords would have had him believe. He was taller than when England saw him last, his body looking more like a human's at sixteen. His face was paler than he had ever seen it and he looked thin beneath his green uniform. America looked every inch the nervous boy England had first imagined when he'd received that letter telling him of France's threat.

England was out of his chair in a moment, crossing the distance between them and pulling America into an embrace. The boy was taller, America had surpassed him by an inch at least. For a moment, America didn't respond for a moment as though he were surprised by the affection, but then he tightened his arms around England and buried his face in the shoulder of his coat. A wince from America caused England to release him.

"Are you injured?"

"Fell off my horse two days ago."

"It hasn't healed?" England asked, worry flooding him.

"It is. I'm pretty sure if I had been human I would be dead now." He ushered America over to one of the chairs and took a seat in his own. Silence stretched between them.

"You've grown taller." England said, breaking the awkwardness.

"Isn't that what war does? You should see Canada, he's a lot skinnier than me though." With the way America's thinness pulled over his bones, England was worried about how he would feel when he saw the other North American. "The French general doesn't like him, sends him out to the worst places. I don't think France knows."

"Where is France?"

America shrugged, "I don't know. I haven't seen him since he very nearly captured me at Fort Oswego."

"France had a hold of you!?"

America stared down at the table and ignored his question. "And I can't very well ask Canada. And it's not like I really want to go looking for France." England watched him, but it was clear America did not want to talk about what had happened. France was going to be sorry for this.

"No, no that's all right. Once he catches word that I am here I'm sure the frog will show his face." He asked America after the battles he had been in and let the boy talk as he tried to examine his state. England interrupted him when he started on a story about a mission that involved only Irregular forces. "America, why won't you work with the Regulars?" America looked away from him, as if considering his words. He was saved from an immediate answer by the arrival of food and England waited until America had finished a plate before inquiring again.

"Their expectations are unreasonable. Major General Winslow has been trying to tell Lord Loudoun."

"Unreasonable?" England raised an eyebrow. "How?"

America looked down at his hands, "They aren't professional soldiers... I'm not. And I don't know if I like all of the harsh rules."

England sighed, "Discipline is necessary to trust your soldiers to do what they must."

"I read all of your books, lots of times." He pulled some more food onto his plate and started into it, buying himself time by keeping his mouth full. England folded his napkin over his own empty plate. He watched America's hands, he was holding the fork all wrong and... what was that? England reached across the table and caught America's right hand. He pulled back the sleeve as America tried to get his arm back.

"Have you been struck?" A red weal of raised skin cross the back of America's hand and wrist. America didn't look at him, but frowned at the hurt.

"I was trying to explain to Lord Loudoun that the men don't like being put under the orders of strangers and that to respect that we're just volunteers and he hit me with his cane."

"When?!"

"Not long before you arrived."

"Why didn't you say so immediately?!"

America shrugged. "It doesn't hurt so much anymore and it will be gone by tomorrow."

"And tomorrow I will be having words with that man."

Shaking his head, America said, "That would probably just make him angrier with me and my people. Besides, don't you want us to follow all those rules about whippings and other punishment?" England remembered when the slip of paper regarding the Solicitor General's decision regarding the standard that volunteers in the Americas would be held to, at the time he had thought little of it. Holding the men of British America to the same standard seemed the most feasible for a cohesive force.

"There are many disciplines beyond those." he said.

"Well, those are the ones that the assemblies have issues with. We've been doing just fine. They don't want to serve with the Regulars if they are going to lose their rights." England could feel the scolding he'd crafted during the Atlantic crossing creeping back onto his tongue. He held it in, but only because America was obviously tired and hurt.

"We can revisit this in the morning. I have been away too long and I will get everything sorted." He realized he still gripped America's wrist and he loosened his hold. "Will I be able to acquire lodgings here?"

"I'll give you my bed. I can sleep in the barn or in the woods with the men."

"That is preposterous, surely there are other arrangements. The beds have not become so narrow?"

Strange, England thought, why would that embarrass him? A flush had crept up America's neck and spilled onto his cheeks. "No, we should both fit."

"It's settled then." It was not so uncommon after all to share beds when there were few to be had. And besides America had been a constant presence in his bed when he was little. No different, America had just grown taller after all.

America scraped the last few morsels off his plate before tossing his napkin across the tableware. "I'll have to go inform the family that you will be quartering."

Despite himself, England winced at the subtle nudge that he wasn't entirely welcome. America's aloofness throughout the dinner had been rather strange as well. Getting up from his chair and leaving the room America didn't even glance back at him once. Perhaps he had been away too long and not given America as much attention as he should. Well, that was going to change.

~*~

The family was not particularly happy at the notion of England's presence, and America could sense that they only agreed for his sake. He hurried to tidy the narrow room. It had once served as the eldest son's, but he had been killed in battle weeks ago.He tidied up his things as best he could, while his heart pounded in his ears. His cheeks burned.

"It's only England." he muttered as he stuffed his spare change of clothes, an extravagant luxury, into the small knapsack he had brought from Williamsburg. Remembering the poem he had taken a stab at writing, he grabbed the paper from the small writing table and shoved it into the bag. The room cleared of mess and any incriminating poems, he paused. Dsuk was just coming on, he should go back to the common room to sit with the family... and England.

England, who had dominated his thoughts more and more as he'd ducked from fort to fort, in sometimes hair-raising flights through the woods, was here. America was torn, wanting to keep his distance or to beg England to hold him as he'd done when he was very small and reliant on England to heal all his hurts.

He caught sight of himself, the reflection inside of the window glass, and tried to pull himself tall. He straightened his clothes and pulled his sleeves lower, over his hands. Only one of those options would make him appear grown up and that was what he was determined to be.


	12. The French and Indian War

_August 1757_

_Philadelphia_

England watched America from the other end of the table. He looked thin, but England couldn't tell if he was merely growing taller or if the war was harming in ways he couldn't see. He had tried to keep the disaster of Fort William Henry near the Hudson from him, but it was impossible. He had never been as studious over books as he was about the various military dispatches, not to mention the newspapers that practically trumpeted grisly details about the war.  
  
Although he was eating his attention was still fixed on the newest stack of papers. One of them in particular made him raise his eyebrows.  
  
"What have you got there?" England asked. America looked startled, as though he had forgotten England was only feet from him.  
  
"Um, I think this one is for you, not the commanders."  
  
"Who is it from?"  
  
"A country called Prussia."

England's eyebrows rose now, "A personal letter?"  
  
"Seems pretty personal." America gave him a funny look and England hoisted him out of his seat to take it from the boy. God only knew what the German could have written to him, especially since months ago he'd received a letter from the Duke of Cumberland that although they were providing funds for the defenses, no British soldiers would be sent to support Prussian military efforts.  
  
He leaned against the table as he read. The letter was surprisingly beseeching and England didn't envy the fix Prussia had gotten himself into, surrounded on all sides by Austria, France, Sweden and Russia.  
  
"Do you think that means France went back to Europe?" America asked, interrupting England's consideration of the situation.  
  
"It's possible." And would be a boon if he could tempt Canada to talk to him. America shuffled some of the papers in front of him. England watched him fidget for a moment longer before reaching over and laying a hand over one of America's. America stared down at England's hand on his. "What has you so flustered?" England intended his words to be a joke, but America's cheeks turned pink.  
  
"You don't often get letters from other nations."  
  
"That is a canny observations. Not many of us are endeared to each other in a way that would cause us to write often."  
  
America picked at a splotch of ink that he'd spilled onto the table weeks ago. "He seemed kind of endeared to you."  
  
_Wonderful_ , thought England, _He must have gotten to the part where Prussia thought I'd immediately jump to his aide if he spelled out what he thought of my... attributes.  
  
_ "Sometimes others will flatter in order to curry favor."  
  
"What did he mean by 'taking a ride beneath the crupper'?" England looked back at the letter horrified, he must have missed that part. Damn, there it was. England stood up and paced other other side of the room to buy time to think. The boys truly were innocent over here due to their isolation, England thought, considering Prussia's own younger brother and many of the other young European nations that sprang up every now and again. He thought back to his own youth and couldn't pinpoint anyone ever telling him. Hell, it had probably been France and he'd blocked out the memory. "Does he mean it the way people mean it?"  
  
England turned back to him, America was looking at him a curious expression on his face. England swallowed, this had not been the conversation he'd been expecting this evening. "While I fear to ask where you heard such a turn of phrase, much less learned what it meant... he does mean it that way."  
  
"We do that?"  
  
"Many of us." America seemed to consider this. England wondered if the fairies would be obliging enough to help him disappear.  
  
"When?"  
  
England felt his own face color, "I will tell you that when you are older."  
  
America ignored his attempt to end the conversation. "Do we do it with allies? Were you and France when Canada and I were little--"  
  
England interrupted before America could follow that thought to its conclusion, "America, we are not having this conversation. It is highly inappropriate."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I assume you do not hear humans speak of such things in the open."  
  
"The soldiers..."  
  
"Well, soldiers often have looser tongues than they should. I suggest you do not ask such questions in polite company in the future."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"It's all right, however, it is getting late and you should run along to bed."  
  
"But I'm not tired."  
  
"To bed!" England didn't mean to shout and it startled the both of them. America lingered in his chair as though he were going to push the issue, but then he abruptly stood up, gathered his things and left the room. England listened to his footsteps as he moved through the house. He dropped into an arm chair to feel the cool night breeze across his skin. He hadn't expected how flustered America's line of questioning had made him. _You are growing up too fast._ he thought in America's direction.

~*~

_December 1757_

_Christmas, Lord Loudon’s lodgings_

The wine flowed freely in the celebration of the Christmas time and England had put himself right into the midst of it. The year 1757 could not be behind him quickly enough. Between the blundering defeats here in North America to the humiliation that Cumberland had served up on the Continent he intended to ring in the new year in a drunken stupor. All of the command seemed to be of the same drink-to-forget opinion as himself. They drank, gambled, and cavorted with women who had deigned to join them, some may have even been paid to do so. The evening grew late and the buzz of liquor had grown to a warm hum in England's stomach. He felt relaxed for the first time in months.  
  
He glanced around the room and took note of America's conspicuous absence. The boy had been at dinner, although at the farthest remove from Loudon that he could have been. That had put him out of England's reach as well, since Loudon wanted his country's ear. Despite the distance, England had been watching him all evening to make sure he did not do or say anything rash surrounded by humans he did not trust. However, England lost sight of him when he'd been drawn into a long conversation about the plans for the winter campaigns. The particularly good bottle of Madeira - or was that three or four bottles - had not kept his attention particularly sharp.  
  
Excusing himself from the men who had long ago abandoned talk of troop movements, England pushed himself up from his chair in the parlor to seek out his young counterpart. The wine had certainly gone to his head, but he was able to navigate the hallway well enough. Men and women were in most of the rooms on the ground floor and he considered checking the bedrooms upstairs. However, he took the stairs down instead of up, wanting to check one more place first. His feeling proved to be correct. He found America down in the kitchens settled on a simple wooden chair near the hearth.  
  
America heard him, but didn't turn, "The servants have gone to bed, you'll have to wake them if you require anything."  
  
"No need, I was looking for you." said England, coming around to pull his own chair out from the small table where the servants ate. America glanced at him as he sat. England watched him for a moment, contemplative. "I've just now realized that I have not seen you smile since I returned." He reached out and brushed his fingers along the curve of America's cheek. _He has grown so much._ England thought.  
  
America leaned away, but took England's hand in his own. He held it loosely between both of his hands and stared down at it. His palms were warm and England was content to leave his cold fingers betwixt them. "I haven't had much to smile about." he said.  
  
"Nor much to say. You've been quite economical with your words as of late." _A sad thing indeed._ England had not really considered how much it bothered him that America had been so reserved with him. He tightened his hold on the boy's hand as though he may try to escape.  
  
"I would talk if I knew you would listen. Lord Loudon seems convinced I am trying to undermine him... and you." America looked at him now, the serious expression on his face making him seem far older than he truly was.  
  
England sighed. "It doesn't help that the governors keep trying to meet and pass their own regulations when what is needed from them has already been well spelled out. You should not still be brooding on this." America dropped England's hand and scooted away from him. His jaw tightened.  
  
"Why won't you listen! I know better than you about this. If you had just supported me and not shown up and started ordering me around!"  
  
England straightened up, his voice taking on the tone of a lecture, "If you would act the way you are supposed --"  
  
"How come I do not get to have a say!? I'm part of the empire right? I'm English." America stood up from his chair and the defiance in his gaze shocked England out of his former warm feeling into anger.  
  
"You are a colony America, not a sovereign power. I give the orders. In fact, you are lucky that the world has changed so much." He stood up, too abruptly, the wine caused his head swim and he nearly fell. America caught him beneath the arms and helped him into the chair. America was settled in front of him in a crouch keeping England upright. The anger tried to keep a hold of his chest, but as England settled his fingers in America's hair the ferocity calmed. "Why are you acting this way. You were always such a good boy before."  
  
"Why won't you trust me now then?"  
  
"Why won't you trust me to know what's good for you?" England countered as America shifted to sit on his knees. He would get soot from kitchen fire on his breeches, England thought. America looked up at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. At his nearness, England could smell him, a comforting scent that America had always had. America shifted and wrapped his arms around England's middle. The motion put him between England's knees as he pressed his face against England's waistcoat. England's right hand still sat on America's head and his left instinctively fell on America’s right shoulder. If America had been anyone else, he would have chanced a hand underneath his chin, drawing lips to his. But this was America, who seemed only yesterday a beloved child, now morphed into someone who had entirely too many ideas about his place in the order of things. The hold was too intimate, an inappropriate embrace to give a superior. "America, release me."  
  
He didn't obey immediately, but eventually rocked back onto his heels and stood up. Their eyes met. "I'm going to the border forts. If my people have to be out there until Candlemas I should be too." He left, his cheeks stained pink and his eyes unreadable. England remained in his seat, his clouded mind trying to process what had happened. A feeling stirred in his chest, a dangerous feeling that needed to be squashed. America was a colony, he was responsible for him.  
  
A return to the Continent was in order. Things needed to be changed. America did not even return from the front to say goodbye.

~*~

_February 1758_

_Montreal_

"America, you shouldn't be here." Canada stared at him, blinking in confusion at America's presence in front of his house in the moonlit snow. America ignored him and pushed his way into the little house, wanting desperately to get out of the cold. He had trekked across open terrain and snuck away from the fort. When he heard France had gone to deal with business in Europe he knew it was the moment. Although looking at Canada's thin-face and arms crossed in discomfort, he wished he'd risked England and France's wrath much sooner.

"What kind of brother would I be if I did not come and see how you fared?" America offered him a friendly smile once they reached the parlor. Canada's frown deepened.

"The kind that I'm at war with."

"England and France are at war." The excuse was thin and he didn't believe it himself. He looked around Canada's Montreal house. It was sparer that he remembered, but at least the fire was warm near a sitting couch and an armchair. He settled down on the couch. Canada remained where he was by the doorway. "I brought you something."

On the cushion next to him he settled his bag and began to pull out the contents. Jars of pickled goods and preserves clinked together. He even fished out a loaf of bread that he'd brought, although it was getting stale now. Canada stared at the food as if it were an apparition. 

"I'd heard you'd had a hard winter." Drawn by the promise of the multi-colored foodstuffs Canada settled at the other end of the couch, inspecting each one. He looked up at America.

"Thank you." 

"You'd do the same for me right?" A small smile came from Canada and a nod. America grinned at him. "Let's make something to eat then!"

Gathering up the jars they settled them nearer the fireplace. Canada went to the dark, cold kitchen and returned with a pot and a few sparse ingredients. They began selecting things for the soup. America talked about anything but the war and Canada seemed content to listen.

When the food was ready they stayed sitting cross-legged on the floor cradling bowls of soup in their hands. America always felt hungry, it gnawed at him, but he watched Canada eat even more. He knew that Canada was starving, he recognized the look from his own face in past years. The war that seemed so exciting, albeit brutal, at the beginning now had him wanting it to end. He thought of England and his spirit drooped. Canada watched him as he set aside his bowl.

"Is something wrong?" Canada asked. America shrugged and scooting the bowls further aside he stretched out across the warm hearth rug, settling his head on Canada's knee. His familiar smell was comforting. Canada lay a hand on his head and stroked his hair. America closed his eyes. "You are being strange."

"Well, you haven't seen me in a while. Maybe this is just how I am now." Canada's hand stilled. America snuggled closer. "I'm glad that we haven't seen each other."

"You are?"  

"I don't ever want to meet you on the battlefield." They were quiet for a few minutes. Canada shifted, laying down beside him. They wrapped their arms around each other, holding the other like when they were little.

"Me either." said Canada. America pressed their foreheads together. "Do you think it will be over soon?"

"I don't know. You should see England, it's like he's become somebody else. He scares me sometimes and he is real hard on me. But other times..." He trailed off, not sure what he really wanted to say. He felt his cheeks heat up as they seemed to do more and more these days when he thought of England.

"What do you think will happen?" 

"I don’t know. But I think England plans on returning in the spring with some grand plan." 

A thoughtful expression crossed Canada's face. "We don't get a say do we?" 

"I've tried, but he won't listen." 

"Do you think England is going to try and take me?"

"Well, if we were on the same side I wouldn't have to sneak through the woods in the dead of winter to see you." America chuckled, trying to lighten the situation. 

"This is not funny, America. We have _differences."_ Differences. America could sense it just as Canada could, it was what made them two people instead of one, and it went deeper than language or who founded them. He nodded. 

“I know that.” America said, pressing his face closer to Canada's neck. Canada adjusted, settling his chin on top of America's head. They lay there in silence for several minutes, just the sound of their breaths and the crackle of the fire filling the room. "Canada?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Do you..." America pulled away a little so that he could look Canada in the face. "Do you ever have... well... _thoughts_ about them?"  
  
Confusion crossed Canada's face. "Thoughts?"  
  
"Feelings?"  
  
"What kind of feelings?"  
  
"The sort that... uh... that makes you wish that they would look at you and only you... and..." His words faltered at the incredulous look that appeared on Canada's face. "You think that I'm being foolish." He pressed his face against the rug to avoid looking at Canada. He heard his brother's movement and felt the warmth of his brother's head on the small of his back.  
  
"I think that way too sometimes... but America, we aren't allowed to think that way."  
  
America rolled over and Canada resettled his head on America's stomach. They looked at each other and America toyed with Canada's curl. Canada swatted his hand away. "You're okay with the rules?"  
  
Canada's eyes slid away, "It is what it is."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Isn't that something the philosophers argue about?"  
  
"Canada..."  
  
"I know. I was sitting with France before he went back to Europe... I wanted... I don't even know."  
  
"England pushed me away."  
  
"You've always been too pushy. You probably surprised him, or went about it all wrong."  
  
"Like you have expertise in such things." Canada reached up for a cushion on the chair and pushed it over America's face. The two tussled until America had pinned Canada in front of the hearth. He yawned.  
  
"It's late. I take it you're not sneaking back through the woods until tomorrow."  
  
"If you'll let me stay."  
  
"Of course I will." They went through their respective rituals of getting ready for bed. America's thoughts raced until the warmth of the blankets and the comfort of Canada's familiarity pulled him into the embrace of sleep.

~*~ 

_March 1758  
Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony  
_  
Standing at the bow of the ship, England took in the American coastline as they drifted closer. A haphazard winter had followed his return, long meetings to discuss plans with ministers who had gained power and Pitt's overthrow that led to the removal orders that England now carried in his pocket. Loudon was out and he was sailing with new commanders coming in. The winter in North America had brought more defeat and the European front wasn't faring much better. Gold had flowed into German mercenary pockets as he sailed back to North America with British soldiers in tow. Others were drifting towards France's other colonies. Pitt's plan would keep France occupied in Europe, while the British Navy picked off French colonies one by one. England had to admit it was a good plan and it would make his empire even greater. It was one unprecedented idea, however, that caused a twist in his stomach.  
  
_"All of Loudon's concerns are addressed with this compromise. Don't you think America will find it acceptable?" Pitt asked._  
  
_"I believe he will." England replied. Pitt exited the room and England leaned back in his chair._  
  
_"Why are you being so reserved? Give the boy some slack, hold him too tight on his leash and he's going to keep giving you trouble." said Scotland, sitting beside him. England frowned at him._  
  
_"I'm concerned he'll get tangled in the lead. Like you do." Scotland ignored the insult and gave England a hard stare._  
  
_"Is that really what you are worried about? Or are you just upset your little colony is proving to be more independent than you would like? I've heard some of the colonies grow quite quickly, becoming quite comely is he?"_  
  
_"How dare you suggest that I am abusing my power over him like that." England said._  
  
_"It would not be the first time." Scotland said, getting up from his seat and heading for the door now that the meeting was done. England glared at him. Yet, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that Scotland had seen something that he had not wanted to show._  
  
As the ship drew closer, England looked for America on the docks. A letter had preceded him asking America to be prompt in greeting him. He had heard that America had marched back from the frontier with some of the Massachusetts provincials regardless that there had been no orders to do so. The scene when they had last been together played over and over in his head. America's embrace, the cool way he had departed when England told him to let go. He told himself over and over that America had not known what he was doing, he'd always been affectionate. He had not changed, only his body. It was nothing and it would remain that way.  
  
England disembarked in a blur and nearly walked into America's chest. "Welcome back, England." America's voice was cool, uncharacteristic.  
  
"America. Do you have a meal prepared?" He nodded. "Good, let's go eat then, it will be a welcome change to ship's fare."  
  
America's Boston home reflected many New England sensibilities. It lacked the ostentatious furnishings of his southern houses and lacked some of the quirks of more international ports. "I trust that there have not been any major developments?"  
  
"Nothing except Loudon leaving. I hope he stays over there. Maybe you should execute him for his failure like that admiral."  
  
England ignored the jibe, although he look at America's face and noticed he was staring at his own plate. "That is a very ungracious thought, America."  
  
America's eyes flicked up towards him, "Isn't that how it works? Men fail and his commander beats or kills him? Is that why you are back, you're going to do that to me?"  
  
"No. You have not failed me." America looked away as though he didn't believe him. "I actually have something very important to impart to you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You are going to be integral to the next phase of the war. You will no longer be an inferior, we are allies, America. You will follow my direction as the financier of this joint venture but you will also be able to give your own orders."  
  
America blinked at him. "We're allies."  
  
"Your officers will be subordinate only to those of the same rank in the Regulars. The only one you have to answer to is me."  
  
"You're not teasing me? This is real?" asked America. England shook his head in response to the first question and nodded to the second. He reached across the table and grasped America's forearm and squeezed, trying to reassure him. America turned his hand over and grasped England back.  
  
"The new plan is to strike France away from his colonies. You are going to help with numbers. You have far more people than Canada. We will liberate him."  
  
"He and I will live together?"  
  
"Without France getting in the way. You and he will become British America together - he will cease to be New France."  
  
"And I won't be New England anymore?"  
  
"You are already so much more than that."  
  
A smile, a genuine grin, spread across America’s face. "Thank you, England. I will do my best. I will make you proud."  
  
"I trust that you will." America’s smile made England's heart jolt in his chest. It was the first time he had seen it in years and it brought a smile to his own face. "Now I recognize you."  
  
"Me too." America took a deep breath before continuing, "If you hadn't noticed I haven't been too fond of General England."  
  
England glanced away this time, "I will attempt not to be so imperious while we work together. But remember your place, America, I am much older than you and know far more about war."  
  
"Well, things are bound to go better now."  
  
"They could hardly become any worse than last year." England said, reaching for his wine glass. He downed the liquid and watched as America refilled it.  
  
"Things will definitely go better. The colonial councils wanted to cooperate all along but the money and the punishments--" America's smile slipped a little along with his enthusiasm.  
  
England didn’t want the moment to disappear, America should keep a little bit more of the spark that spark of joy that England treasured. He said, "Let us not speak of any more business. Let us celebrate our new relationship and I will tell you some stories from the Continent."

~*~

_June 1758_

_Siege at Louisburg_

Being on the frontier didn't suit England at all. America was much more sure-footed and at home in the woods and meadows. He would come back to help England, but it was beginning to fray on both their tempers over how the expedition should be run.  
  
"America, you're being underfoot!" England scolded across a large map stretched across a camp table. The battle formations were sketched out across it, in only a few days time he should be banging down France's door at the strategic Fort Carillon. They had been arguing about an approach and a plan for the better part of the day. America was not fond of the order that England had given to stay on the siege.

"England, you aren't---"  
  
"I have been listening! However, I think in this instance you need to bow to my experience." America's eyes narrowed and he stared at him. Then, without saying a word he executed a perfect, if sarcastic, bow and stalked out of the tent. England bit down on his tongue to keep himself from shouting at his back. He tasted blood. "When this is all said and done I will be having words with you for your petulant behavior." England muttered to himself. He could not let this behavior continue and there would be ample time afterwards. Once the fort was in their hands, they could make more strategic strikes which should greatly improve their moods.  
  
The thought of the look on France's face when he heard of the defeat of General Montcalm and the loss of Louisburg was keeping England's spirits afloat. Oh, if only he could see it when he got the news on some distant battlefield in Europe. Perhaps he should have a letter delivered by another nation, that way they can report the event properly. Now if only he could get America to cooperate fully and learn the joys of stomping French faces into the ground. If only. Damn, he needed a drink. He reached for the glass on the edge of the map and downed it with one gulp.  
  
The attack plan would proceed as designed by his generals, America needed to fall in line.  
  
The camp was filled with busy shoulders, some working on the push forward to clear a space for the cannons and positions. He strained his ears and over the noise of his own troops there were similar faint noises of men preparing for battle. He spent the day walking amongst his own men and avoiding the provincial forces that kept to themselves. He saw neither hide nor hair of America the entire day. It was nearing sundown and he was planning to retire for a meal when he began looking for him in earnest. It did not take long and soon he had followed the trail of sightings to where the provincial forces were camped on the bank. He approached the landing boats and looked down into the last on in the row.  
  
"Can I join you?" he said, leaning over one down on the end. America glanced up at him.  
  
"You found me."  
  
"You doubted that I would look?"  
  
"It crossed my mind." America replied, his eyes sliding from England's face and back toward the sky. "But I knew you'd find me sooner or later and if you didn't I would have looked for you."  
  
"You... you would look for me?"  
  
"Of course. I always have even when I knew you were far away." England didn't know how to respond, it was the last thing he would have thought their conversation would have turned to. "Are you going to join me or not?"  
  
"Laying down in the bottom of a boat is hardly dignified for---"  
  
"C'mon England." America lifted his hand, offering it to England. He looked at him for a moment and then tentatively stepped into the boat. It was wide and flat bottomed. America had piled the tarps under his head. England lay down so that they were shoulder to shoulder. They were silent, staring up at the clouds drifting overhead. The noise of men preparing for battle seemed to dim, leaving them in solitude.  
  
"This reminds me of when you were little." said England.  
  
"Except when I was little I would do this." With little warning, America rolled over on top of him, laying his head on England's chest. England was pinned beneath his weight. It was not an altogether unpleasant feeling, that feeling that had stirred in his chest over the winter resurfaced. That odd stirring that he should not have.  
  
"Yes, well, you are not so little anymore." he said, pushing on America's shoulders. "This is unseemly if you want more responsibilities."  
  
America leaned up, looked down and with a great show of reluctance returned to their original position, except now there was a large gap between them. England couldn't help but feel grateful.  
  
"You really feel that your plan is better?" America asked after a long silence.  
  
"Yes, we will take the fort and soon you and Canada can realize British America together."  
  
"I'm going to trust you, England."  
  
"That's all I've been asking." And he hoped it would be enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a fascinating time period and I had a lot of fun researching it! (And I realized I could end up doing a whole fanfic on the Seven Years War) so I hope I scaled it down enough to major moments. The Seven Years War will be wrapped up next chapter (hopefully) and then it will be on to the American Revolution! Otakuashels and I appreciate you all sticking with us and we are sorry that there was such a long gap between chapters!


	13. Quebec Falls

_July 8, 1758_

_Battle of Carillon_

“...and the fort should capitulate despite the breastworks and abatis that Montcalm has managed to build.” General Abercrombie said, pointing to the engineering diagrams laid out on the field table. England leaned over them to take a closer look.

“This is all good information? Who created these diagrams?” England asked. He had managed to meet up with them at camp only last night. The army was staging. He had left America at Louisburg with primarily Regulars, although no doubt as soon as England left America had gone and joined his own rangers. General Amherst was a clever fellow, he would keep them in line. The way America had looked at him when he departed still prickled in the back of his mind. _I’m trusting you, England…_ They had to be successful. 

The general’s response broke him from his thoughts. “A promising military engineer came up with this approach. It should fall easily, we have a far superior force.”

Indeed. They outnumbered the French nearly four to one, this should be over quickly, regardless of the presence of France’s North American commander, the Marquis de Montcalm. He would need to write to France to rub in the loss personally. America would be there to take Louisburg and he would be here to take Fort Carillon. Quebec and Montreal would be in his grasp. Canada would be his by the end of the year. Pitt had promised. He acknowledge Abercrombie and settled into his tent to wait for the battle. The noises of men working and preparing made him feel confident.

A half hour before the formal battle was scheduled to begin, gunfire interrupted last minute preparations.

“Who is that? Are the French firing on us?” muttered one ensign.

“The Americans…” grumbled a captain as he stretched out his spy glass to see more clearly. “They have engaged the French line.”  Orders were shouted down from the officers commanding the regular troops into battle. The soldiers marched forward, the line not as uniform as it should be. The pops of musket fire began to sound from the French defenses. Time seemed to slow and speed up all at once. The startling boom of a cannon fired at the river.

“The artillery has come up the wrong way!” A bad feeling began to creep up England’s spine. He glanced towards the general, a man who was looking at the field in front of him, pale in the face. England looked back to the walls. Red-coated bodies were piling up under French fire. It continued until two o’clock, the second wave of provincials being ordered in.

 _Damn._ he thought. _Why is he continuing with this plan?_ The hours wore on towards sun down. Wave after wave. England couldn’t take it anymore. He left his position to join them, he did not know what difference he could make now, but sometimes the presence of a nation, even unknown, would do something to bolster men’s spirits. He shouldered his musket. Commoner or Lord, England could sense them around him. No one even noticed the extra man joining their ranks. The drums ordered them forward, a mix of red-coat regulars and brown, green, and blue coated provincials. Gunfire filled the air all around him. Shouts, cries, and his own blood pounded in his ears.

A ball whizzed past his ear as he pushed his way through and neared the wall. The French bayonet flashed for only a moment before it plunged into his gut. The searing pain dragged him backwards as the human soldier continued his thrust. The man’s boot hit him square in the chest knocking the breath out of him as he tore the blade back to make a thrust at another Englishman. England clutched at the wound, a yell escaping him when another of his men fell dead on top of him. Spots drifted in front of his eyes. Blackness crept into his vision.

A mortal wound always took its toll.

~*~

He awoke in darkness, the natural dark of night. His body felt light, moving. He could hear the sound of oars on the water. 

“Where am I?” he said, his throat feeling impossibly dry. His voice sounded more like a dry croak than actual words. A cup touched his lips and he gulped the water greedily. He looked up at the young man who had offered it. He wore the coat of a Connecticut provincial. “What happened? Did we capture the fort?” he asked again, his words much clearer.

The formerly impassive face above him changed so abruptly into naked anger that England gasped, taken aback. “They ordered us at the walls until it was too dark to see us die anymore. We retreated. Hundreds wounded, god only knows how many dead! Then the French were hunting us in the woods, at least that’s what I heard.”

 _Retreat?_ They had lost! Thoughts of how such a route would have occurred escaped him. There should have been no reason for it. 

“English lord gone and bungled it all.” grunted another man in the back of the boat that England couldn’t see. He had the same flat tone, another American. “Threw down our lives as if they were nothing.” Murmurs arose. The sounds of more boats on the water was around them and more distant voices. _We must be rowing up Lake George._ Unconsciousness began to pull at him again and he allowed himself to slip back into darkness.

He awoke in the morning light in the infirmary. Slipping past the surgeons, he limped towards the officer’s tent knowing he must look a complete fright. He still wore his uniform which had completely soaked through with blood. A large gash in his waistcoat revealed where he had been stabbed, although the pink of a healing wound now showed instead of the mangled and torn flesh. He shoved his way through the tent flap and came face to face with General Abercrombie.

“What in God’s name has happened?!” he demanded. _What on earth am I going to say to America?_

~*~

_July 25, 1758_

_Final days of the Siege at Louisburg_

The fog was thick. America could barely see the backs of the men in front of him. Off towards the town he could see the glow from the ruins of King’s Bastion, the biggest building America had ever seen. Now it was nothing more than a pile of still smoldering timbers. Someone had set fire to it two days ago. Smoke had become a familiar sight, what with several French ships burning in the harbor after a lucky cannon strike ignited one.

Tonight, it was time to finish off the rest of those ships. Without them, the French didn’t stand a chance.

“All right lads, if you can get the drop on them and take the ship then do it. But don’t be afraid to light ‘em up otherwise.”

America nodded at the order and snuck off with several other rangers toward the nearest French ship, the _Prudent._ A little gunpowder, a spark, and it would be no more than a memory. The Royal Navy would then be able to finish this. 

A tipped over lamp while trying to ambush a sentry sold this ship’s fate. America helped spread the flames, lighting a fire in his own blood. The burning, salt-laden wood burned in his nose and throat and he quickly fell back with the others as the crew began abandoning ship with the rest of them. As they drifted back under the cover of fog and darkness America could hear shouts of triumph from the other vessel. The _Bienfaisant_ was theirs. 

There was nothing left to do but wait for a formal surrender. America smiled. He couldn’t wait to tell England how successful he’d been.

~*~

 _November 1758_  
Winter Quarters at Albany, New York  
  
_England is avoiding me._ It was all America could think as the regular army streamed back from the frontier to the barracks that had been erected for them in the town. He couldn't decide if that thought brought him any joy. England had written to him about the Battle of Carillon and the letter had found its way to him in mid-September. He'd heard about it long before. The victory at Louisburg had barely been celebrated, when folks brought the news.  
  
He could still feel the emotions now, shock at first and then the creeping feeling that perhaps the victories of the campaign season would be for nothing if England couldn't defeat a significantly smaller force. What would happen to him then? Was his ultimate fate that of the people of Frontenac? They had won that town in August, the colonists packed up and shipped to France along with the soldiers. Although he'd never received another letter from France like he had early in the war, but he could sense it. If things went wrong France would probably do something, if only to get back at England.  
  
The weather was growing cold with the coming night and America turned to go back to his rooms in one of the boarding houses in town. Something made him stop, a flicker of intuition and he turned around. More soldiers were marching into town. His eye scanned them and feel on England mounted on a skinny roan horse. Both mount and rider looked the worse for wear.  
  
England's formerly white lapels were completely discolored. As he neared America could see evidence of many repairs. He looked tired and when his eye caught America's, America felt all the things he wanted to say leave his head. He hurried over to him and helped him off his horse.  
  
"Good, the fairies got your attention." America frowned. England must really be suffering to hallucinate magic.  
  
"Let's get you out of the cold."  
  
"Beyond that hot water and a bed would serve well."  
  
"I can make that happen."  
  
He took England to his small room and helped the boarding house owner prepare a tub and heat the water. Once everything was situated, America stood awkwardly in the door as England shucked his coat and began undoing his waist coat.  
  
"Umm... I can go downstairs and get you something..."  
  
"Don't be stupid. I didn't come here to banish you from your quarters." England said, his voice sharp. "Damnation..." he grumbled, fingers fumbling on the buttons of his waistcoat. America watched him for a moment.  
  
"Hold on, let me help." he said, pushing England's hands aside so that he could make faster work on the buttons. England allowed America to take on the role of manservant until it came to his small clothes. America was grateful, because his hands were tempted to take on a mind of their own.

He could hear the motion of the water as it lapped on the sides of the copper tub. The sound of a cloth being dunked in the water soon followed.  
  
"You can sit down. We need to talk." said England.  
  
"You want to speak to me now? Would it not be better to wait until you're not... well..." America flushed as he stumbled over the words, when had it gotten so hard to talk to England?  
  
"Until I'm not indecent?"  
  
"Well, yeah."  
  
"Yes." said England. America knew he wanted to him to correct his speech, but he remained silent. England sighed. "If you want the truth... I am comforted by your presence. It hurts me to think I no longer a comfort to you." America turned away from the door. England's back was to him in the tub, his bare shoulders sticking up above the rim. His hair was wet and dripping onto his shoulder blades. England was unmoving, waiting for America's answer.  
  
"I... I'm angry with you." Somehow, admitting it made the fire of that anger snuff out. He just felt tired, tired of being upset with England, wanting England to go back to the person he knew. The person who didn't make him feel complicated things. He crossed his arms, clutching at them in an attempt to keep his hands from shaking.  
  
"About that gross incompetence that was displayed at Fort Carillon. I am angry about that as well, but we will no doubt capture the fort in the coming year France can't possibly sustain it."  
  
America wanted to tell him that it was more than that, sending his people into killing fields was merely the most obvious. Instead of any of this the words came as, "How are you so sure?"  
  
England twisted in the tub, glancing at him. "You've heard of the developments abroad?"  
  
"The capture of some of the French ports?"  
  
"Yes, without supplies France's army cannot continue to defend Canada, and the victories at Louisburg and Frontenac will not be the last." The sounds of washing began again. "Now will you please come closer so I don't have to crane my neck!"  
  
America obeyed and settled on the edge of the bed, keeping his eyes directed away from England in the tub. He fidgeted for a few minutes knowing England was watching him. He reached across the bed for a night shirt that lay there folded, settling it on the dressing stool for England to put on when he was finished with the hot water.  
  
"War rarely goes smoothly, you should not lose heart."  
  
"I'm not losing heart."  
  
"Then why do you look so sorrowful? This is highly uncharacteristic of the boy I knew."  
  
"I'm not a little boy anymore am I?" America said, now looking England in the eye. The other nation appraised him and America couldn't read what was going through his head as they stared at one another. Drenched with water and lacking his usual refinements, America didn’t think he looked all that older than he was anymore. "This war makes me realize... we aren't the same are we?"  
  
"Don't be foolish."

America’s eyes narrowed and the expression was mirrored on England’s face. America had been caught between wanting to see him again and the dread that the meeting would be exactly like this, a trial. “I’m not being foolish.”

“Naive then.” An audible, exaggerated sigh. “I really don’t want to fight this evening. If we must argue, let’s take care of it tomorrow.”

“How can you just…”

“It’s the way things are done. You are about to become a part of something that the world has never seen before. The empire will stretch across the globe and France will not be able to stop me, nor anyone else for that matter.” America watched England swell with pride over his grand vision, and America felt some of it as well. He could help with that, if only… what? He wasn’t really sure. “...now to get this lasted business completed here and you can go back to your farms and merchant docks.”

America considered this for a moment, it seemed very much a backhanded compliment. “You don’t think I make a good soldier.” America challenged. England’s shoulders stiffened and he seemed very interested in finding the bar of soap he’d let slip from his fingers. 

“I told you I don’t want to discuss this tonight.” America took that as an agreement. England saw him as only an inconvenience, a tool to win the war just like cannons and horses. A tool for glory, not the cause of it.

“In that case I need to excuse myself for I do need to think on these things tonight.” Without waiting for permission he went for the door, not even pausing when England called his name. England could have the room, he thought, considering his options on another place to sleep. Stepping into the stables he paused. A horse poked its head over the nearest stall. America picked up a few straws of hay and the horse nibbled it from his open palm. America felt some of his tension drain away.

“Do you think it’s possible to love someone and hate them at once?” he asked the darkness of the barn. The horses had no answer for him. He stood there scratching the animal’s ears and thinking on what he could do. _I’ll show him how valuable I can be. I’ll go to the assemblies._ Patting the horse on the snout he went to look for a stable boy to get a horse ready. The boy grumbled about being interrupted from sleep, by a boy who looked barely older than himself, but got to work anyway. 

The evening had darkened while he’d been in the stables, long enough that England had retired to bed. America crept into the room and was grateful that exhaustion had claimed England. He didn’t wake throughout America’s packing, even when he nearly spilled an ink bottle in his quest to leave a note.

_Dear England,_

_I am leaving for Boston. I’m going to raise men for the campaigns for next year. I’ll do what I can in the assemblies. I’ll help you delete France._

_Yours,_

_America_

Leaving the note on top of the dresser her hurried away to the night road.

~*~

When England woke the next morning he felt the coldness of the bed all around him. _Stupid and selfish and_ ** _wrong_** _of you._ he berated himself. He sat up, his head still aching as if he’d gotten no rest at all. He knew it was more than the trouble of his physical body, it was from being stretched in resources all across the globe in the quest for Mr. Pitt’s grand scheme. He could feel it in his core that this war would change everything. _It already has,_ he thought, _America…_ He shook his head, not willing to finish that thought. Rubbing his face with his hands briskly he made to get out of bed and off to prepare for full winter quarters. America should learn how a _proper_ army managed that, not just volunteers and conscripts that expected to return to hearth and home at the end of every campaign season.

A clunk on the dressing table drew his attention. An apologetic looking fairy hovered over a silver letter opener. “Now, now you can’t have that.” England said, shooing the creature from behind a stick of sealing wax. He noticed the folded note, then.

It took a few readings of it and a look around the room for him to accept that America had indeed left. Left to help him, yes, but left all the same. The logic of it made sense, but somehow England felt like there was a hole inside, cracking open just slightly.

 _He’s not a little doting dependent anymore…_ It was that sort of thought that worried him most of all.

~*~

_Late August 1759_

_Third month of the Siege of Quebec_

America had cooperated with the numbers of men as England had hoped and the approach was underway. France had Canada well-entrenched and gaining any ground on Quebec was becoming an arduous task. The newest attempt was to force France to fight. England could sense that France had come back. His plans on invading the British Isles were being pushed back again and again. The front in Europe had stalled so what better time to attempt to reclaim things in North America. _You’re going to be sorry you came back when I take Canada from you._ England thought.

England bent down over the maps on the table. The approach on the downstream shore would still be the easiest. 

“It’s true!” America shouted, pushing aside the tent flap, his field clothes dirty and his hair even more askew than normal. “All of the French military has drawn back into Quebec and Montreal!” He dropped into a camp chair and ran a hand through his hair. england smiled, this was very welcome news. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, this means we have even more work to do. We can’t rest on our laurels.”

America rolled his eyes and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Don’t worry England, I can handle whatever comes next.” He grinned at him.

“I see.” England replied dryly. “As you are able to move very quickly over the land and the rangers can do so with greater stealth. Find me a way into that city.”

America stretched and stood up. “I can do that.”

“Wait a moment.” America turned and waited, “Are you sensing anything from Canada? Sometimes we can sense our siblings…” 

“I…” America looked away, “He’s scared, England.” England stepped around the table and put his hands on America’s shoulders, America looked at him. 

“Just remember we are dealing this blow upon France. Canada will no doubt feel something just as you sensed my own perils before. He will be safe with us soon. And you will greatly expedite the process by finding me a way into that city.”

“Okay.”

“I know.” America closed the space between them and pulled England into a hug. England embraced him in return. England could sense it so close to him, all the strength and possibility of America pressed against him. The feeling he’d been trying to ignore stirred within his breast again. He shoved it down deep. Loosening his grip on America caused the other to pull back.

“I’ll be back.” America said, shoving his cap back on his head and disappearing again into the bustle of camp and beyond to the wilderness once more.

~*~

_Early September 1759_

_The Wilderness_

“Do you think it’s impossible?” asked America sitting around a campfire. The woods were filled with the summer noises of night birds and insects. A particularly noisy cricket was busy chirping somewhere behind him. Across the fire, one of the rangers leaned back on his hands staring up at the starry sky, thoughtful.

“No, just proving to be darned difficult. Those boys in white know this is it. Fight or surrender. Probably waiting to find an ‘honorable’ way of giving up.” He leaned forward and spat a stream of tobacco into the fire, showing just how much he thought about European concepts of honor.

America leaned back on his elbows. He didn’t get it either the way England would wait to surrender or push so hard on France that he would threaten to fight to the last man. Or that he would stay behind the walls of Quebec until every person starved.

“Alfred!” America jumped at the unexpected shout. He sat up staring at the other ranger. “There’s a scout here says he’s got a message for you.” America got up and walked over. The messenger was about America’s height with his hat pulled low over his features. Despite the disguise, America recognized him immediately.

“Matthew?” he said, suing the human name that Canada had been given, albeit in English. A brief nod and America was directing them away from the human rangers and following Canada until they were out of earshot. “What are you doing here? It’s dangerous! If England knew you were--”

“I know, but I had to talk to you. France left for Montreal tonight. I slipped away from the city as soon as he left. Most of my soldiers are in the field anyway.”

“Are you planning on surrendering to England?”

Canada shook his head, “I’m going to stay with the city as long as I can, then I guess I’ll go to Montreal. France is leaving. He said something about how he needs to speak to Spain in person.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” Canada shook his head, looking away and out into the growing darkness. 

“No, there’s more. I want you… can you tell England that I’ll cooperate with him when the time comes.”

Confusion washed through America, “You’re going to betray France?” Canada’s brow furrowed and his fists clenched. America had never seen Canada grow angry before. America risked a step closer and reached out for his shoulder.

“France he… he can’t protect me anymore. He’s leaving me…” He shrugged off America’s hand on his shoulder and turned his back. He wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered.

“Canada…” 

“You know it too. England isn’t going to stop until France is gone, right?” He turned and America could see that his eyes had grown wet. “I let some men escape from Quebec. They belong to you anyway and know the city. They’ve been in the city with me since Mr. Jumonville was killed.”

“They’ve got information?”

“Yes, Mr. Stobo knows all about the west wall’s weaknesses. It won’t be easy to go up the cliffs, but General Montcalm won’t expect it. The reinforcements are hours away...” Canada rubbed at his eyes. America yanked him into a hug, Canada gasping in surprise. America held him tight even though it took him a moment to relax. “I just want the war to be over. For us to be at peace again.” he said, clutching at the back of America’s jacket.

“Me too. Are you sure you don’t want to tell England yourself?” Canada pulled back slightly and rested his forehead on America’s shoulder.

“No, I can’t yet. I want to really say goodbye to France first. I don’t want him to…”

“You didn’t tell him how you feel?”

“Did you tell England?” America pressed his lips together, Canada gave a quiet laugh. “Nothing has changed in that regard then. He’ll go back without knowing that, but I don’t want him… to know… how frightened…” His voice trailed off and became so quiet that America couldn’t hear the rest.

“Alfred! Where are you!?” called one of the men from back in the encampment.

“Coming!” he shouted back.

“I’m going now. How long do you think…?”

“What would make that general surrender?”

Canada shrugged, “If there’s one thing I’ve been learning from all this, these men value honor and glory before their lives.” With one more swipe at his eyes, Canada turned and hurried away from the American camp.

“See you soon.” America waited until he could no longer see him in the night’s dark. When he returned to camp he asked for a horse and hurried back to hear what the escapees from Quebec had to say.

~*~

_Early September 1759_

_On the shores of the St. Lawrence River_

He had been up since before dawn, unable to sleep. The wad of dispatches that were now spread across the table had burdened his sleep. They had come from other battlefronts and many of them were from Europe. The front was holding abroad, Prussia pulling off some rather unexpected victories. England was both grateful and bothered that he wasn't in the thick of all of it. 

  
"Mr. Kirkland?" England looked up from his breakfast. The eggs had grown cold and the bit of bread was half-eaten. Thankfully, the tea was still warm, the little candle flickering beneath the warmer. It cast a friendly light on some of the more sour news. It was becoming less and less likely this would be over by winter.  
  
"Mr. Kirkland?" the man said again, pulling England's attention from the steam rising from the china cup.  
  
"Yes, Ensign Smith, what is it?"  
  
"There is a gentleman arrived in camp who says he has to see you immediately."  
  
"Who is he?"  
  
"Didn't give his name. He's wearing civilian clothing. Light hair, only speaks a little English--"  
  
"Blue-eyed, tall?" England said.  
  
"Yes." _What in hell does he want?_ thought England.  
  
"Show him in, make sure we are not disturbed." The soldier nodded and ducked out of the tent a moment later replaced by someone whose clothes had been selected to look common. They both waited until the footsteps disappeared from the soldier, leaving them relatively alone. "It's a good thing my men didn't look too closely. I don't buy you for a Canadian at all, France." With a flourish that England had come to expect, France doffed the plain cap and grinned at him.  
  
"Canada has his own charm, however rustic he can be." France plucked at the sleeve as though discarding some bit of "rustic" from the fabric.  
  
"What do you want France?" England said, shifting in his chair.  
  
"So abrupt! And here we haven't spent time in each other's company in years!" France said as he pulled up a chair, placing it so close that any shift would bring his knees in contact with England's. "Oh I understand, been too busy in bed with Germans and trying to take all of my colonies away from me!" Anger flashed in France's eyes and England felt his pulse quicken.  
  
"Prussia and the others have very little to do with current circumstances. And you know full well I am here to take Canada and my navy will take even more. I told you all of this the moment we discovered the existence of the boys. I always knew they would both be mine."  
  
France took in England's speech with an attempt a blank expression. England could see his anger though, simmering just below the surface. Only to tease it out. "Speaking of little _Amerique_ , where is he? I have not had the opportunity to see him since he slipped through my fingers several years ago." he said, his voice betraying his growing rage.  
  
"Not here."  
  
"Out doing your bidding no doubt. What did you have to bribe him with?" England frowned, what was France implying? "Not as loyal as we would have wanted, no?"  
  
"I don't--" France raised a hand to quiet him.  
  
"I have known you too long, you have been clever in regards to some things, but never lies." France's cool expression slipped and England could see sadness, not only fury.  
  
"There's nothing you can say that will make me give up and give you any concessions. You will have to pry my gains from my broken, bloodied fingers." England did not notice the tension in his hand until France placed his own on top of it. He jerked his hand away. France placed his own hand in his hair, combing his fingers through the disheveled blond strands. He wasn't looking at England now, his eyes staring blankly at the canvas wall. England took the opportunity to examine his oldest rival. While France lacked none of his normal finery amongst his costume of a provincial. He looked worn. He had seen it on France's face before, he was growing tired of war. France's implication of America's disloyalty rankled him. "Do you think Canada is untrustworthy?” England shot back, hoping to catch France off guard.  
  
The question broke France from his study of the tent wall. "They are different from us. Quite the conundrum of the chicken and the egg. Were they always this way or in creating them did we force them on this path?" he said. England stared at him, confusion spreading across his face. France chuckled. "He and America share many confidences. Dear Canada doesn't realize I know, but even now they are probably meeting."  
  
"America would never--"  
  
"You know exactly where he is at this moment?" England pressed his lips together. He didn't know. America had been gone for weeks now, promising to return with information. Could he be meeting with Canada right now? To what end?  
  
"Why are you telling me this?" France looked at him appraisingly, words poised on the edge of his lips. The tent flap flying open startled both of them.  
  
"England, you'll never guess--!" America was framed in the tent flap, schooling his expression from earnest excitement to shock at France's presence. England would have found it amusing if it were not for his rival's presence. "Why is he here?" he said, a hint of violence in his voice. England rose out of his seat and walked between them. He put a firm hand on America's chest.  
  
"France is here to speak with me. Do try to be civilized, America." England reprimanded. America flushed, the lines of his face hardening. France got up from his chair gracefully. He stood close to England's back.  
  
He leaned down and whispered soft so America could not hear. "Perhaps I was mistaken, his loyalty might border on worship." England's jaw twitched, but he could not afford to let America go to tell France off. He was trying to show America the decorum necessary for a gentleman's war. He could hear France's snort of amusement. England longed to punch him in the nose. "War appears to be agreeing with you, America. Learning a thing or two from England?"  
  
England expected for America to rage and he prepared himself. Instead, the colony was quiet holding France's gaze. Something passed between America and France and it sank onto England's shoulders like an invisible weight.  
  
"America, I will speak to you in a moment, let me just finish up with France." With his words the spell was broken. America's eyes fell to him and the world felt right again.  
  
"I'm afraid England that my time must be cut short." France pushed the plain cap back on his head, pulling the costume of a simple French-Canadian around him again. He brushed past them both, but America grabbed him by the arm. England felt pleased at the initiative.  
  
"Are you just leaving here, or are you running away?" America said.  
  
France frowned, "You haven't been listening to _Angleterre_ very well if you think I would tell my plans to you."  
  
"Don't leave without a proper goodbye to Canada. If you do he'll forgive you, but I'll be angry with you. He didn't do what he did because he hates you. Don’t blame him." England stared at America, so he had been speaking to Canada after all... A sad smile came to France's face, he reached out and grasped America's arm in return. For the second time in the brief exchange England felt an unwitting voyeur.  
  
"I understand why he did it," France said. "You would be wise to guard your heart as Canada has done his own. You wear it far too vulnerable on your sleeve." France's eyes met England's over America's shoulder as he said the final words. He pulled his arm out of America's grip and out into the mid-morning sunshine.  
  
England stared after him for a moment before turning to America. A thoughtful expression dominated his face. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"  
  
America blinked at him still lost in thought for a moment more, but then excitement spread across his face as though the curious exchange with France had not happened. "I have news about how to get into the city!" He jumped immediately into the explanation, calling in the escaped soldiers from Quebec. It was nearing dusk by the time all the information was recorded and a proper plan could begin. Quebec would be his within days, England could almost taste it.  
  
"Well done, America." England said, wrapping an arm casually around America's shoulder. America grinned. "Now go on and get some rest. " Giddy with the prospect a victory England leaned over and absentmindedly kissed America on the cheek. America obeyed the direction of the congenial pat on the back and started out the tent.  
  
England assured himself he was imagining the flush on America's face and the way he touched his cheek as he walked to his quarters. France could imply all he wants, he was seeing things. _Worship... I'd believe it more if he obeyed a bit better._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is just one more chapter of the seven years war (otherwise this chapter would have been 10K words long!) so we're getting there! Thanks for sticking with us! :D


	14. One End, New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The French and Indian War has come to a head and it's only a matter of time before things change forever.

_September 13, 1759  
Battle of the Plains of Abraham  
2:00 am_  
  
The plan was as grandiose as it was daring and it thrilled England's blood at the power of the moment. The hull of the ship was dark and the water of the St. Lawrence lapped against the sides. A sentry called out, and the response came in perfect French from one of his own men. The ruse was a success, the Frenchmen thought they were the supply ships they'd been waiting for. The truth of that was those ships had been seized by the British navy farther downriver.   
  
The going was not as quick as England would have liked, the current working against them. Each challenge by a sentry could make certain the gig was up.  
  
England glanced over at America who sat beside him. He could just make out his outline by the moonlight sliding through the slats of the ship's deck. His head was bent on his own shoulder, face slackened in sleep. He was not the only one present trying to get a little more rest before their task. Few aboard knew the entire nature of this venture and the work it would require. General Wolfe didn't want to risk his officers making a stand against his bold plan.  
  
England would have dozed himself if his nerves didn't feel like they were on fire. America was seated close enough to him to provide a comforting warmth along one side of his body. He tried to contain his own fidgeting. Funny, he thought, that he would be the eager one for this fight.  
  
The moonlight shifted to predawn as they reached the bank. "America, it's time." He woke up quickly, betraying how light he'd been sleeping in the first place. Men moved as quietly as possible, their orders telling them secrecy was key.  
  
England knew what they were to face, but the sight of the cliff rising up to the plain west of Quebec still seemed, while not impossible, a feat where so many things could go wrong. The sky was lightening, it was now or never. Soldiers, mostly Highlanders, were already beginning the climb.  
  
"Beat you to the top, England!" America whispered and hurried to begin his ascent, musket and other equipment hanging from his back. In his green provincial's coat he half-disappeared among the brighter reds of the Regular soldiers. England smiled and slung his musket across his back. He could not let America get too much of a head start.  
  
Despite how he tried, he lost sight of America somewhere in the scramble. As he pulled himself to the very top he could not find trace of him at all. He's no doubt making some reconnaissance. England though, heading forward to check on the proceedings. The sun was almost completely up now, but they had gotten the drop on the small garrison anyway. The white-coated French soldiers sitting sullenly behind British lines, their weapons confiscated.  
  
England took a moment to celebrate the small victory and then threw himself into the work of getting thousands of troops and armaments into position.  
  
~*~  
  
_Woods Outside Quebec  
9:30 am_  
  
C'mon Canada, where are you? The question pounded over and over in America's mind as he hurried through the woods, evading native allies and Canadian militiamen alike. They could all hear the noise of a formal battle preparing in the open field. A skirmish had broken out on one flank and America could smell the smoke of a burning building. Who had set fire to what America did not know. He could sense that Canada was nearby, and he followed his instincts after him.  
  
The urge to duck overtook him and he dived behind a thick pine just as the wood split with the force of a musket ball. He turned, leveling his own weapon. His assailant was nowhere to be seen, likely down on the ground reloading. America's eyes scanned the brush, for any hint of movement that would betray a man's position. If he could just get him as he rose...  
  
Crack! Shards of wood struck the side of his face as the shot just barely missed his head. He ducked down, crouched low. He could hear people moving in the woods, but who they belonged to he couldn't be sure. He tried to get a look at them through the leaves, nothing, just distant shouts. A noisy volley sounded in the distance, England must have engaged the French Regulars.  
  
Hot metal met America's neck, causing him to flinch and try to bring his bayonet around. "Arrêtez!" America froze. "Put it on the ground, America."  
  
"I'll get the drop on you one of these days, Canada." America said through gritted teeth, laying his musket down. Canada couldn't mean to shoot him?  
  
"Not today." Canada was panting, his breath coming shallow bursts.  
  
"I didn't come here to fight you." Several more volleys sounded beyond them and the drums began to pound. In the noise America couldn't figure quite hear the order they beat.   
  
"Why did you come then?"  
  
"To help you escape. You told me yourself, Quebec can't hold out much longer. That's why you let those men go isn't it?" Canada was silent. "Can you remove your pistol from my neck?" The metal dropped away and America turned, trying to see him. Canada was in plain clothes, his cheeks smudged with soot and leaves in his hair. He seemed unsteady on his feet. His face looked more sorrowful than America had ever seen it. He shuddered as a steady barrage of musket fire and artillery pounded near the city.  
  
"I could not go until it was lost, but... but I couldn't stay inside the walls any longer..." His shaking knees gave out on him, America caught him and held him close.  
  
"I know, but you have to get out of here. France is in Montreal, right?"  
  
Canada shook his head. "He's given up on me." America couldn't think of anything to say. He tried to imagine their roles reversed. If England had just left him behind... anger and sorrow raged in his chest.  
  
"Do you want to go to England then?"  
  
"No, the people in Montreal still have to make a stand, my people from Quebec that aren't deported will go there..." Canada took a rough swipe at his eyes, rubbing tears away. His shoulders drooped. "I can feel it... they're going to England's side."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The militia. They know the battle is lost even if Montcalm won't call it." He was silent for another moment clinging to America's arms. "Help me up." With little effort America was able to get Canada on his feet, although he was concerned his brother would not be able to remain on them. He helped Canada take a few shaky steps before releasing him.   
  
"It won't be so bad will it? England was always nice before, I'm sure he will be again." America said, inserting joviality into his voice. "It'll be odd won't it, them not fighting over us?"  
  
No smile crossed Canada's face at America's feeble attempt to cheer him up. He merely shrugged and disappeared into the woods.  
  
~*~  
  
_September 18, 1759  
Surrender of Quebec_  
  
The city was his. Canada's second largest city and a major piece of the fur trade. A blow right to France's pride. England was savoring the moment in one of the finest houses savoring the moment in one of the finest houses in the town (although still quite rustic) and was enjoying a meal that was a step above camp food.  
  
"You seem lost in thought," England said, "America?"  
  
America jolted up, his fork clattering against the china. "Huh?" England repeated himself. "Oh, I was just thinking about the war. Do you think it will be over soon?"  
  
"I would hope so, although France seems quite insistent to cause trouble for me on the Continent--"  
  
"Are you going to be leaving again?"  
  
England raised his eyebrows at the force of America's interruption. "Unless there is a significant issue, I intended to spend the winter with you." America's fork slipped from his hand. "I can see you are surprised."  
  
"It's just--"  
  
"Is this news unwelcome?"  
  
"I thought you hated winters here..."  
  
England frowned. "You are being very strange."  
  
"I guess I am." America said. He looked down at his plate s though the blue designs on the china were a fascinating sight. England set down his own utensils and waited for America to speak. It was obvious he was troubled by something. He shifted in his chair and stood up, dropping his napkin onto the table. England raised a brow, America rarely stood on ceremony, but he usually asked permission to leave the table.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"I... uh... have some work to get done. I should also inform someone that you will need lodging in Albany again. I assume you aren't staying here in Quebec?"  
  
"You should indeed take care of those things, but it can wait until morning."  
  
The corners of America's mouth twitched in a smile. "That almost sounds like a trick. Didn't you tell me that I shouldn't put off for tomorrow what could be finished today?"  
  
"I did say that." England got up from his seat and came around the edge of the table, placing his hands on America's shoulders. Goodness! Had America grown again? He was broader in the shoulder than he had been before, England was sure of it. The rest of him slowly catching up with his lanky height. "I am proud of you for remembering it. But you also need to learn to celebrate a victory even when you are confident that more will come."  
  
"I'll remember." he said, offering England a smile. They stood there for a moment, and England could sense whatever "work" America claimed to have was still pulling at him.   
  
England nodded and patted America on the cheek. This seemed to surprise the boy, but America recovered quickly enough, patting a hand on England's shoulder. "I suppose I will leave you to it then, America. If you are focused on work I should not stand in your way."  
  
"I'll see you at breakfast. Try not to get too drunk okay?" England gave him a light shove, America chuckled.  
  
"I can hold my liquor just fine. Now off you go."  
  
~*~  
  
_August 1760  
On the March to Montreal  
_  
When did I get so old? England thought to himself, adjusting his position on the saddle to try and alleviate a pain in his lower back. He felt an exhaustion he hadn't felt since the end of the Hundred Years War. Damnation it's hard to fight a war all across the globe. A twist offered a crack and his back felt better although a soreness settled again after a few minutes.   
  
Despite England's admonishment to America to take time to celebrate his victories, the colony had thrown himself into a patriotic fervor. Money flowed from Parliament to get more American support and farms, shipyards, and merchant docks seemed to determined to pocket as much of it as possible while providing goods for the war. By spring they had received word of the great victory at Quiberon Bay last fall, a battle that had dashed France's hope of any naval victory in this war. It was only a matter of time now and France's losses in Europe and loss of Quebec was telling. The march to Montreal had so far been uneventful. France's new commander had made an attempt at retaking Quebec at the onset of the campaign season hoping to take advantage of the garrison's tough winter, but he'd been thwarted by British command of the St. Lawrence.   
  
"Courier!" came a shout from further up the column, moments later followed by the pounding of hooves on the dirt road. England spotted America immediately, pride swelling in his chest. He'd gotten America a proper coat for once and while he wore the red with a certain sloppiness, it was still a charming portrayal of a proper British soldier. He pulled up his horse beside England's and turned to ride alongside him.  
  
"What's the news on the fort?" England asked.   
  
"Same as the others, seems like the French Army really has drawn back to Montreal. There were still some men at some of the nearer forts, but nothing that could stop our progress indefinitely." England smiled at the news. France knew that he couldn't hold out any longer, not really. This "last stand" would be for show, if he made a last stand at all. Canadian militiamen had defected to his side in such numbers England half-expected Canada would show up any day.   
  
"We will press onward then!"   
  
_North America will be mine, you can't stop me now France.  
_  
~*~  
  
_September 7, 1760  
The Siege of Montreal_  
  
"They want to declare an armistice here in North America, to await the results of the war in Europe." said General Amherst, commander of the British armies in North America. He dropped the message onto the top of growing pile of documents, settling himself into a chair. From where he was seated America couldn't see him, but he could see England glance at the man over his shoulder. He had caught grapeshot in his right side during the battle at Fort Levis, a wound that would have killed a human and had been giving him a grave inconvenience over the past few weeks. England insisted on checking the wound daily and America couldn't bear to tease him about being an insufferable nursemaid after he'd seen his face in the medical tent after it'd happened.   
  
The siege had only been in place a few days, but there was little hope for the people holed up inside the city walls. There was no way to get supplies into the people and the army had no choice to come out. If the army came out they would no doubt be defeated very quickly by a combination of ground and water forces. The military in charge of Montreal had to make a decision of how they would make their stand, or frame their surrender.  
  
The only sign that England had been listening to the general at all was the quick glance up and a quirk of his mouth. "What do you think of that, Lord Amherst?" he finally said, his voice flat and unreadable. America examined his face, wincing slightly as England started to tighten the bandages.  
  
"You know my feelings on this. It is a surrender or nothing. Surely you feel the same."   
  
"I do." said England, "Not to go and make sure that they understand. He stood up, putting one hand in America's hair and ruffling it. England looked down at him and smiled. America's heart seemed to skip a beat, he hadn't seen England look that happy in ages. "I'll be back in no time at all. Hold the rear, America."  
  
“Is that really necessary? It’s not like there is a hidden French army somewhere. Can’t I come with you?”

“I would feel better if you would stay here and watch the rear guard. France is in desperate straights now and we cannot be sure what he may have up his sleeve, idiot though he is.” 

He didn’t like it, the idea of England going alone. Part of him felt as though he was deliberately being left out. _No, England wouldn’t do that… would he?_ The thought warred inside him. Ultimately, America nodded and England was gone, off with the delegates to make sure that Montreal surrendered in a way that was favorable to the British.  
  
~*~  
  
_On the island of Montreal  
_  
England could sense it on Governor Vaudreuil's face. The man was going to make terms with them, no matter that the French general was gearing up for an insane charge that would end with a glorious slaughter on the battlefield. He had half-expected to see France present, but it seemed that France really was leaving that night he had visited him before the fall of Quebec. Strange that he would abandon Canada. The French colony did not look at England, merely sat quietly behind the governor and listened. England wanted him to look at him, when Canada had been small he'd been shy but direct, now he seemed to have taken the brunt of France's defeat. He had not seen him in person for years and had expected him to be more like America, but it was not the case. He was thinner than his brother, although they might be the same height. He seemed to have achieved a bit more grace than America, although not nearly as much brawn. _Who has he become under France's care?_  

The French asked for a moment to discuss things amongst themselves and before Canada could disappear with them England stepped across the room and came to his side. Canada looked as surprised as the humans amongst them. “Canada, could I have a word with you.”

“You don’t have to go with him.” said Vaudreuil to the boy in quiet French.

“He’s right. We can speak later.” 

“ _Non._ I will speak to you now.” Canada said, turning away from France’s men and following England’s outstretched arm into an adjacent room. England followed and shut the door behind them. The room was a parlor, chairs and a lounge arranged nearby the windows that could be thrown open to summer air. They had not yet been moved towards the fire and their home for the winter. A writing table stood in one corner, the papers neatly tucked away. Canada had selected one of the armchairs, he sat, back straight, and stared at his folded hands. 

England took the chair opposite him, the chair had grown dusty and the specks lifted in the sunlight. The dust caught in his nose, carrying with it the reminisces of France’s cologne. The nation made his presence known even when he had run back to Europe. England sneezed, causing Canada to jump slightly. Pity filled England’s heart that France would leave Canada to deal with this fallout on his own.

“Do you know what is happening?” he asked. Canada did not lift his eyes.

“Governor Vaudreuil is surrendering me to you.” he said in French. He winced before England could even say anything and repeated his words again in English, although heavily accented.

England nodded. “Do you understand what that means?”

“I will have to come live with you.”

“Yes, that’s right. Although I will leave you here in North America with your brother.” 

“Does it not also mean that I will only be yours until you speak with France at the end of the war?” Canada did look up at him now, albeit with his head still bowed. England was reminded of Canada when he was really small, peering around from behind America’s back to see if his twin would get away with his multitude of youthful schemes. 

“It would mean that, if I intended to give you up when I settle with France.” Canada lifted his head now and England could plainly see the upset on his face, “You must understand, I have intended to raise both you and America since the time you were both discovered. I don’t know how much France has told you what is going on elsewhere, but I have claimed many of his colonies. He won’t be getting them back if I can help it.”

“What if he defeats you?”

England shook his head. “There is little chance of that, even if he unveils whatever it is he is cooking up with Spain.” Canada looked surprised. “I have allies too. France, no doubt, likes to make me out to be all alone. While I do prefer it that way it is not the reality. We all must have allies.”

The way that Canada got up from his chair and turned away from England made it obvious how little France let Canada know about the rest of the world and the case of the war. He let Canada parse his thoughts in silence, his thin arms wrapped around his middle. He took a deep breath and turned back to England, the chair now between them. “Did you really make America your ally?”

England tilted his head in confusion, it was such an odd question. “Why do you ask?”

"Nothing." Canada said, turning away to hid his face. England waited, he was in no rush. Canada was coming with him regardless of what the humans decided, armistice or surrender, the result was the same. If force was going to be required, so be it. Every nation had to learn about it some time. "What are you going to do with my people? Will you send them away like the Acadians?"  
  
This answer came easily. "They will have to swear loyalty to my King and then they will become British. The French soldiers will leave."  
  
"Will I have to do that, swear loyalty?" Canada's innocence struck him. The North Americans were so young... they didn't know so many things about the greater world beyond goods, trade, and farming. They would need to learn what it meant to be part of an empire soon enough. They had been in the backwoods too long, time to bring them into the eighteenth century.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Can I not be an ally to you like America? I promise I won't--"  
  
"No." England leaned back in his chair. "And America is still a colony like you. He has to obey, additional payment and liberties he has received during this war will change. All of it was to accelerate this outcome. You and America are subject to the same subordination." Canada stared at him, violet eyes wide. England felt a twinge at the look of fear that was behind them. England clenched his teeth to keep himself from speaking. He could not let Canada get the wrong idea. America had already taken too many liberties, thought far more of himself than he should. In the silence a change came across the boy, his posture straightened and his eyes turned downcast. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft and emotionless, "Will I get to say goodbye to France when all this is over?"  
  
"I can't promise that. Things are about to go very poorly for him indeed." England considered forbidding it outright, but he didn't want Canada clinging to hope that France would appear and take him back. There was no way England would allow that to happen.  
  
The next words out of Canada's mouth were so quiet that England wasn't even sure he was meant to hear it, "Guard your heart..." Canada turned away, hiding his face.  
  
The reappearance of the delegates saved England from the decision to comfort the boy or give him space. Vaudreuil came forward and began to usher Canada out of the room.  
  
"Formal surrender will occur tomorrow." said one of England's men. "Do you want to bring the boy?"  
  
"No, he can spend one more night amongst his people. He can become British when everything is complete." England turned on his heel and began to leave. He paused at the door and turned to the human, "Deliver the colors to my tent when all is done."  
  
~*~  
  
_Outside Montreal_  
  
America scrambled up from the camp chair when he saw England's horse return. He held the animal's reins as England dismounted, handing it off to a groom as soon as he could. He followed the older nation to his tent bristling with anticipation. "So, what happened?" The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could restrain them.  
  
For a minute England didn't answer. He kept his scarlet clad back to America as he pulled his weapons off and settled them on his trunk. "I've won." he said, turning towards America with a large smile on his face.  
  
America moved across the space and grabbed England off his feet into a hug. England held him just as fiercely. For the first time in years America felt as though England was really embracing him, not just a gesture of familiarity or show. Relief came in waves. "The war is over." He clung to England. Things could go back to normal now. The foul-mouthed soldiers would leave and his people could settle back into their lives. They could put down their arms and not need to ignore their farms and businesses. England could stop shifting from beloved brother to ordering general. He could go back to the person America had known and loved all his life.  
  
England patted him on the shoulder and released him from the hug. "The war may be finished here, but the work is not."  
  
America pulled back. "What do you mean?"  
  
"The time for celebration will be once Montreal is fully secured and France defeated abroad. I need you and your men to fortify the frontier defenses. You should leave as soon as possible."  
  
_What_? England turned away from him and headed to his piles of documents spread along his camp table. Beloved England had turned into General England in the blink of an eye. America struggled with his words, wondering if there was anything that he could say that would keep England from snapping at him. "I was hoping to see Canada--"  
  
"There will be a time for that. You've seen him plenty in this war."  
  
"What is that supposed to mean?"   
  
England sighed, exasperation crossing his features as he fixed America with a stare. America took the green gaze head on. "For once in this whole business just do as I ask without an argument?! You should show a bit more patriotism and sense of duty!"  
  
For the first time in his existence, America wanted to hit him. That morning England had been warm and attentive as he checked America's shrapnel wounds from a few days ago... where did that England go? Was it actually possible for such a contrary person to exist? Did he truly not understand? Biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood, America turned and stormed out of the tent.  
  
"Where are you going?!"  
  
"To the rear forts! Where you want me! Enjoy _your_ victory, England!"  
  
"America!" He didn't stop, no did England seek him out this time. America was informed just before winter set in that England had left for the Continent.   
  
He hadn't even said goodbye.

~*~

_1763_

_Paris, France_

Sitting in the straight backed chair at the corner of a long table he watched silently as the humans moved about the room, negotiating and arguing. He peered down at the letter in his lap. Apparently, Prussia had come to a separate agreement with Austria and they would be forming and signing their own treaty within a week's time.

“Is that from Gilbert?” A thickly accented voice asked. 

“Yes” Handing the letter to the other country he cracked his neck with a silent groan of satisfaction. This treaty signing had been going on for hours.

“I am shocked the pair could come to any agreement _mon ami_.”

“You can see Prussia has the same opinion in regards to this Treaty of Paris.” England all but snorted. To be quite honest he was a bit shocked himself. Shifting in his chair he rubbed at his nose, it was cold. Despite the roaring fires and the multiple bodies moving about the room the room still maintained a slight chill in the air. It was February in his country after all. He noticed that John cast him a worried glance. Shaking his head he dismissed the Duke’s concern, the human male turned back to continue his conversation Jeronimo and Cesar. John Russell was his fourth Duke of Bedford and the negotiator for Great Britain in regards to this treaty. The gentlemen stood in a convoluted triangle with Cesar Gabriel de Choiseul, Duke of Praslin, and Jeronimo Grimalidi, first Duke of Grimaldi. He had met all of these men as children and here they were negotiating the fates of their country in a single room. He shook his head, not for the first time, in wonder. Humans were such fascinating and tenacious creatures.

“You are worrying about something again no _mon ami_?” Francis, leaned on the back of his chair and England sighed.

“Oh shove off” He huffed. He knew this treaty was important, hence why he had spent days locked in a room with George and John pouring over what they wished the treaty to solidify and coming up with compromises and arguments about imagined suggestions from the French. But to be honest, his heart wasn't in it. He would much rather be in the Americas at the moment. Specifically Virginia.

“ _Tellement grossier_!”

“Don’t be a sore loser.” England muttered, ignoring the dramatic gasp from the other blond. He looked across the room when he felt an unpleasant gaze on his face. It was Antonio, Spain. He wasn't all too surprised when the Spanish country had come waltzing in with France. There were to be no negotiators from spain, but the country would be signing off on the treaty. Much of the land the three of them had captured  being returned. but England was aware that he was coming off better than the other two. He had managed to take several possessions away from France and it seemed as if the treaty was going to allow him to keep a sizable share. France was giving him the eastern half of French Louisiana; all the way from the Mississippi river to the Appalachian Mountains. His eyes flickered to a piece of parchment not far from here that seemed to discuss just tha _t_ _VII. French territories on the continent of America; it is agreed, that, for the future, the confines between the dominions of his Britannick Majesty and those of his Most Christian Majesty, in that part of the world, shall be fixed irrevocably by a line drawn along the middle of the River Mississippi, from its source to the river Iberville, and from thence, by a line drawn along the middle of this river…._ it was a long document. He looked back at Antonio, meeting his gaze. He had also won Florida from Spain, and the Spanish country was quite bitter about the whole ordeal. England did nothing to dissipate the grin that curled his lips, satisfaction growing only stronger as brown eyes narrowed his direction. It was worth it.

It was only a heated conversation that took his attention away from Antonio, as he swatted Francis's hand off of his shoulder. Pushing out of his chair he made his way over to the small group of men. He better see what was going on, he didn't want to spend anymore time in France than needed. He had much better ways to spend his time. He was well aware that while his people in Great Britain would be pleased for the most part with the treaty, he knew that at least one compromise was going to upset his subjects in North America. It had already been agreed upon that Roman Catholicism was to be protected and since most of his colonists were strong in their Protestant faith, it was probably not going to sit well.  He just hoped that it did not cause problems in the long run. But, that was a problem for a later time. He heaved a silent sigh as John turned to him with an exasperated expression. Today was certainly going to be a long one.

But no matter what the others would say, North America was his.

~*~

_November 5, 1765_

_Manhattan, New York Colony_

"Where have you been?" America nearly dropped the half empty bottle of Madeira in his hand when Canada's voice came unexpected from his drawing room. He should have expected him, he'd been at his house for a week and wasn't scheduled to leave until tomorrow. He'd completely forgotten. America closed the door against the cold night, dropping down the blanket he'd hung over it to ward off drafts. Weaving into the room he dropped onto the couch near the fire, grateful for the heat. The clock on the mantle had just dinged to mark two in the morning. "Where have you been?" Canada repeated.  
  
America turned his attention to his brother while tipping back another swig of the wine. They looked more alike than ever now since Canada had adopted the English style of dress. "I was out, it's Pope Day after all." It was his own adaptation of Guy Fawkes day. Canada frowned, he hadn't been terribly fond of the effigies of the Pope and the Devil that had been constructed around town. He was, after all, still primarily Catholic.  
  
"Were you at the riots?" It was in moments like these that Canada reminded America of England. He wasn't sure if he was more angry at England or himself for not seeing him before he left. It didn't help that England's responses to his letters were coming few and far between and he never addressed any of America's concerns regarding the post-war policies. _Damn_ , America thought, h _e's learned England's glare.  
_  
"If I was what would you do about it? Tell England?" He took another drink from the bottle in his hand, eyeing his brother over the top.  
  
"Maybe I should."  
  
"And it would serve to reassure him of your loyalty. You'll become the good one." America said, not bothering to mask the bitterness in his voice. Canada's eyes narrowed further, anger crossing his own features. America had half a mind to pick a fight, and Canada knew it. Now he just had to wait and see if his brother would take the bait.  
  
"I don't know what you want me to do! I'm not in any position to stand up to him and here you are drinking and ransacking houses up and down the coast. Did you really threaten the fort tonight?"  
  
"News travels fast." America tipped the bottle back again and, finding it empty, tossed the whole thing into the fire where it exploded in crunching glass and sparks from an upset log. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Canada jump in surprise.  
  
"You're lucky the soldiers didn't fire on you." Canada said, standing up and walking over to a pitcher of drinking water. He filled a glass and brought over a napkin. He thrust the glass into America's hand and rubbed at his cheek. "You are covered in soot."  
  
America allowed it. The water was a poor substitute for the wine, maybe he had some rum somewhere... that thought sent another wave of anger through him. Parliament had put a hefty tax on that as well. Despite the fire burning in his gut Canada's touch soothed him. "He hurt me Canada. And now he's treating me like nothing more than a subject... the war... he doesn't know how much things changed for me."  
  
Canada squeezed onto the seat beside him. They became an unbroken being - attached from the shoulder all the way to their feet. "Have you tried telling him?"  
  
"He doesn't listen any better now than when the war was on. He at least acknowledges me when I start smashing windows." Canada was quiet and America could feel the burn of the alcohol fading, making him feel sick and tired. He had gotten what he wanted in the last months, the stamp men out before they could even enact a single tax. He shifted, hooking his arm through Canada's. Their hands met and their fingers wove together. "If his soldiers had fired on me, what do you think England would have done?"  
  
Canada lay his head on America's shoulder. "I don't know."  
  
"France didn't protect you from Montcalm did he? England would probably say I deserved to be treated that way. Hell, he treated me that way. Just a burr in his behind..."   
  
"I didn't tell France about how I was treated. I'd like to think he would have done something... but he still left me behind in the end didn't he?" America leaned his head onto Canada's. Ultimately, he didn't get to say goodbye either and it was unlikely England would let him see France even now that the war was over. He only got to write one letter that England had delivered. "He said something to me once."  
  
"France?"  
  
"No, England. When I was surrendered to him. I... I don't think you two have ever been on the same page." It was a change of subject, but America allowed it.  
  
"Well, my page is the right one." America muttered and Canada snorted with amusement. America nudged him with his shoulder, in his current state he couldn't coordinate much more opposition than that.  
  
"Can I ask a favor?"   
  
"Depends."  
  
"I think you should give England another chance. Ask enough times and he's got to listen."  
  
"I've been asking, I--" Canada reached over and pulled America's chin to face him. They were nose to nose."  
  
"I don't know you at all when you are like this."  
  
America's brow furrowed. "I'm still me."  
  
"And we both are not who we used to be. When they weren't looking we grew up, but you need to remember that England doesn't see it that way or maybe he does and is denying it. He sees us as colonies, not nations like them. And besides that we _are_ dependent on him. Don't risk us for your hurt pride."  
  
America stared back at him, trying to think of something to say. He wanted to tell him that this went beyond pride, it was a matter of principle! England always taught him about holding to one's principles. But before the words came out of his mouth he remembered a moment in the cold, dark woods and Canada reminding him that they were different. Back then he'd thought it was merely a case of different languages and parent countries. Now he could tell that Canada just didn't see the world the way he did. He would have to make him see. He'd fight for both of them.  
  
Leaning forward, America kissed Canada on the forehead. "I'll try not to worry you." He knew he would and he could see that Canada knew it too. Before his twin could voice an objection he said, "We should get some sleep. You were going back to Montreal tomorrow right?"  
  
Canada nodded. Once they were tucked into bed side by side America had a thought. He was curled up around Canada his nose pressed against the back of his neck. He smelled like he always did - wilderness. To the back of his night shirt America asked softly, "You're on my side aren't you?"  
  
Canada didn't answer. America gave a mental shrug, sure his brother had just fallen asleep.  


 

 

 


	15. Epilogue: A Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm is coming...

_January 1774_

_London, England_

Something ominous hung in the air, it tickled the back of England's mind. It was as if a shade was always at the corner of his vision, but when he tried to look at it straight on it would disappear. Whatever it was, the fairies seemed not to notice it, they appeared completely unconcerned. Perhaps the chill of poor revenues and collecting taxes was getting to him.

The papers and maps across his broad desk could not hold his attention. Perhaps he would retire early, let the feeling burn away in the dawn light. 

The hallways of Westminster castle were dim in the growing evening, servants hopping about to light the lamps. He stopped one of them to make use of their taper to light a candlestick and continued into his rooms. He had just begun untying his neck cloth when a rap sounded on the door.

"Come in." he said, not turning from his chest of drawers.

"I was told to bring you this message immediately, m'lord." came the quiet voice of a servant boy. England turned toward him now, curious. On a tray a letter sat, appearing innocent. He picked it up and the boy disappeared without another word.

He held the cream-colored envelope in the light cast by his candle. "America?" he said aloud.

Breaking the seal he folded open the letter and a page of newsprint fell onto the floor. He picked it up and stared at the illustration. Men dressed as Indians stood on a ship throwing box after box on a ship anchored in a harbor.. He squinted at the words scrawled across the side of the box bobbing in the etched depiction of the waves.

'Tea' it read. He unfolded the paper further to see the headline, the Boston Tea Party, the incident was being called.

His brow furrowed, "What?" The article was from a Massachusetts newspaper, although England wondered if the story had spread throughout the colonies by the time it arrived in his hands. The printer had been enthusiastic about the event and vocal about his issues with the taxes. He turned to the letter that had wrapped up the offending news. While America's letters had been long in the past, they had grown shorter and shorter and far more direct about passionate issues. Short, clipped phrases about how his rights as a British colony had been violated. This note, however, was only one line.

_Give me liberty or give me death._

The short phrase made England feel as though he had swallowed ice. The letter was not even signed and he felt foolish even as he turned it over to see if there was anything on the other side. There was only his name scrawled in America's rough script.

He snatched up the newspaper once again. The ice in his chest thawed quickly in fiery anger. He thrust the newspaper into the flame of the candle. America was starting, no, had been behaving like a petulant child and England’s patience had worn thin. 

No longer feeling a desire for sleep at all he went to his writing desk. Lighting a few more candle and lamps he pulled a piece of paper towards himself and flipped open the ink well. Thrusting his quill into the ink with a force that splattered it across his fingertips he set nib to paper to scrawl a more stern reply then America will have ever seen before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Book 1! Thank you for reading along with us! Book 2 will begin as soon as we can and shuriken7 has written a slice of life France/Canada fic set in this world that should be coming out sometime soon (it's up now - http://archiveofourown.org/works/6151680)!
> 
> Thank you for reading! We're amazed by how many words are already leading up to the drama that will be the Revolutionary War (and the War of 1812!) and how many more scenes and moments of history we still have to share!
> 
> If you enjoyed it please leave a kudo or a comment! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If this story gave you some enjoyment please leave us a kudo, thanks!


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